


lights earth with her silver

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Closeted Character, F/F, Femslash, Gender or Sex Swap, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:26:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: Ginsberg cut her hair off the night before she left for Los Angeles.





	lights earth with her silver

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains some period-typical homophobia, and discussion of a consensual but traumatic loss of virginity.

 

 

 

Ginsberg cut her hair off the night before she left for Los Angeles.

She did it in the bathroom with the door wide open. Her father came in behind her and picked up one of her discarded curls. He used to braid it for her every morning, when she was a kid.

“You’re sure about this, huh?” he said.

“I am,” she said. Her own face looked back at her from the mirror, small and pale. There were still shadows under her eyes, but they weren’t as bad as they had been in the hospital. In the wan light the scars on her wrists were dark red, obvious as tiger stripes. The nurses had suggested bracelets for when she got out. A girl has to think about such things, they said, if she ever wanted to get married. They had been preoccupied with marriage, as though it was a prize awarded for normalcy. Ginsberg wore long sleeves instead.

She’d donated most of her old clothes to the Salvation Army. They gave her some coupons in return, and she got slacks, men’s work shirts, a few sweaters. A pair of two-toned shoes that must’ve been worn by a guy no bigger than her. “For your brother?” the cashier had asked, and she had forced herself to smile. All of it was packed into a suitcase, now, along with a pair of sunglasses from the drugstore that Pop had picked up.

He wasn’t happy about the situation. As far as _he_ was concerned she should stay in New York forever, unemployed, both of them living off his meager paycheck. Never getting ahead, always being caught unawares by a past-due notice, a knock at the door. She wouldn’t do that to him. Sometimes, she reflected, her father didn’t know what was good for him.

“You look kind of like that photographer,” he said, “the one you like who makes the funny pictures.”

She touched the side of her shorn head, trying to figure out who he was talking about. “...Diane Arbus?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “She’s Jewish, you know.”

She smiled at him. “I know, Pop.”

“But younger,” he said. “And prettier.” He kissed the top of her head. “How do you feel?”

Ginsberg leaned forward, her hands curled around the edge of the sink. “Lighter,” she said.

 

 

It was Megan who got her the job. She came to see Ginsberg at the institution, and asked what she could do to help. But people always said that. They didn’t necessarily mean it.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she had asked, while they sat in the visitor's room and played scrabble. They were only allowed boardgames while under supervision, in case someone got the bright idea to swallow the pieces.

“Nothing,” Ginsberg told her, shrugging. She could only be relieved that Megan hadn’t shown up in the early part of her residency, when she’d been refusing to bathe or eat and the orderlies had to drag her into the bathtub. “You’re out there and I’m in here.”

“You won’t be in here forever,” Megan said. “And maybe you’ll need a change a scenery some day. If you come to the West Coast give me a call, I mean it. I’ll help you get set up.”

Megan must have been encouraging her to try advertising again, across the country where her mistakes couldn’t follow. But that wasn’t what happened. Nobody wanted her back. Word got around, because it always did, and the industry doors swung shut like a vault. She wasn’t surprised. Ad men were terrible gossips, and she had long been an object of curiosity or contempt.

Still, she gave it a shot. Thinking about having to give a pitch ever again made her stomach cramp, but she applied every place she could. What else could she do? Bag groceries, learn how to style hair? She had one talent -

(toxic, dishonest, _pointless_ )

\- and if she gave it up she would have nothing at all. Be nothing at all. Just like everyone expected of girls like her.

No one returned her calls, or looked at her portfolio. I was nominated for a Clio, she’d think, but there wasn’t much resentment in it. She was too tired for that. The landlord started talking about raising the rent. The neighbors whispered about her when she passed by in the hall. So she phoned Megan.

“LA is different than New York,” said Megan. “It’s so much more relaxed. And you won’t be alone since I’m out here. The change will be good for you.”

“I hope so,” said Ginsberg.

(And change was coming, in an unstoppable wave. She just didn’t know it yet.)

 

 

“I’m trying to be myself,” she told Morris. “To look like myself. Does that make sense?”

“I didn’t ask,” he said, looking baffled, and to be fair he hadn’t. Morris was dropping her off at the airport. He’d borrowed a neighbor’s car and was carrying her suitcase for her. She kept trying to take it back but he switched hands and wouldn’t hand it over.

“I know,” she said. “I just - I wanted to explain, I guess.”

They parted at the departure gate. He was clearly trying not to tear up and she couldn’t look at him or she was gonna get started, too. They’d never been apart for a significant amount of time, not since the day he came to get her from the orphanage. She’d never gone to summer camp, never gone away for school or with friends. Now she wondered if she should have eased herself into the idea. Her hands were shaky, her breath short.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, suddenly. “Not if you don’t if you don’t want to. You could come back home.”

She forced herself to exhale. “I love you, Pop,” she said. “But I don’t think I can.”

 

 

Everything in LA hurt Ginsberg’s eyes. The light bounced off the glass of the airport windows, the sidewalk, the hot metal of Megan’s car as she pulled up. It bathed the street in a golden glow. Ginsberg kept squinting, trying to fight it off. Her sunglasses were packed away in her suitcase.

Megan’s weren’t. She was cool as a cucumber in a purple minidress that made her legs look unfairly long, her hair teased up big and her eyeliner perfect behind the yellow-tinted glasses she was wearing. The convertible wasn’t too bad either.

“If you aren’t a movie star yet then at least you look like one,” said Ginsberg.

Megan stared at her for a second before she burst out laughing. Ginsberg didn’t see what was so funny. “Thanks, sweetheart,” she said, and winked.

Ginsberg blushed. She couldn’t help herself. If pressed she would blame it on the heat.

But Megan didn’t notice. She got out of the car to open the trunk. There was already some stuff in there - a hatbox, jumper cables, a pair of high heeled shoes, a map of California - but there was plenty of room for Ginsberg’s suitcase. Megan looked at her closely when she came around to put it in.

“Did they do that at the hospital?” she asked, and Ginsberg realized she was talking about the haircut. She touched the back of her head, self-conscious.

“No, they were very -” Very adamant about her looking feminine. It was supposed to be part of her cure. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I did it myself. Is it that bad?”

“Not at all,” said Megan. “Short hair suits you. And it must be nice for summer.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Ginsberg said. “Is it true there’s only one season here?”

Megan closed the trunk. “Kind of,” she said. “It’s never truly cold.”

“Weird.”

“Most people are pretty glad to hear that.”

“I dunno,” said Ginsberg. She tilted her head up, searching that blue blue sky for something familiar. “I don’t know if I like it yet.”

Megan nudged her with her elbow. “Hey,” she said, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The last thing Ginsberg wanted was to talk about her feelings. She’d done so much of it in the hospital. Lie on the couch, Michaela, and tell us how you feel. What do you think that means, Michaela? What do you think it means when you look at other women? What do think it means when you think about them sexually? She’d tried to defend herself but the words dried up in her mouth. The medication made her foggy and stupid. We only want what’s best for you. Her personality, in crisis, being broken down to component atoms. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “All better, right?”

Megan squeezed her hand, sweetly, and leaned in close. “You will be,” she said, into Ginsberg’s flushed ear. “I promise.”

 

 

Bel-Air looked like a movie set. Sprawling white houses with with winding drives stretched out on either side of the street, as far as the eye could see. Most of them had gates out front, and some security guards. The newest houses crackled with modernity. They were smooth collections of geometric shapes and huge plate glass windows like empty eyes. The older ones had terra-cotta tile roofs and were grown over with ivy. That was the kind that Megan pulled up to. It was a Spanish style mansion set back from the road and surrounded by a small forest of fig trees. There were palms, too, closer to the house. Short and fat with spiky leaves, not the willowy things that stood sentinel along Los Angeles roads.

Megan hit some numbers on the pad attached to the wrought iron gate. It swung open, and they continued on.

“This place is nuts,” said Ginsberg. “What am I supposed to be doing for this lady again?”

“The usual things an assistant would do,” said Megan. “Answer mail, organize her schedule, run errands. Not very different than being a secretary.”

“I can do that,” she said. “I have done that.” And she would - she would behave herself. It wouldn’t be like advertising. She wouldn’t get Megan in trouble for vouching for her.

“She’s looking forward to meeting you,” said Megan, and then lower, more conspiratorially: “Her last assistant stole from her. As long as you don’t get caught with your hand in the till you should be fine.”

They parked the car in a garage that was already open. There was a slick forties roadster up on blocks and a more practical recent foreign coupe that looked to be in operating order. “And you might have to drive her around a little,” said Megan. “Her eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be. You have a license, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ginsberg said. “Not that we ever have a car.”

Megan linked arms with her. She was being really friendly, which Ginsberg both appreciated and didn’t know how to respond to. She stood for a full minute, limp as a dead fish, before realizing Megan intended for them to move forward like that.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and Megan smiled own at her.

“You’ve had a long day,” she said. “Anyway, you need a car in LA. But Vivian has one, so don’t worry about it. Figure out what pedal to push and you’re golden.”

They strode down the walkway to the front door. It was big and red with stained glass inlets. Irises, like the Van Gogh painting. An ancient maid in uniform answered it. She and Megan exchanged a few words in French, and they were shown in.

“A real French maid?” Ginsberg muttered.

“I’m sure she had her imported,” Megan whispered in return. The lady in question walked steadily ahead of them, grim and silent as the grave.

Vivian Lennox was in her greenhouse in the backyard. She wore a long red caftan with a turquoise necklace and her silver hair was caught up in an elaborate updo. Not how most people dressed when gardening. But she wasn’t most people. She was snipping roses, and turned towards them as they came in. An eyebrow climbed upwards, slow and deliberate.

“This is her?” she asked.

Megan grinned, wide and sunny. “It is. Say hi, Michaela.”

“Hi,” Ginsberg parroted. She was relieved when Vivian looked away. It was like being under an x-ray.

Vivian walked - no, glided - over. She had a rose in her hands. “Are you fond of gardening?”

“Um,” said Ginsberg. “Not really. Will I be expected to -”

“No,” Vivian interrupted. “It was simply a question.” She handed the rose off to Megan. It was yellow, as big as a fist. “You have a unique name,” she said. “Michaela. Were your parents creative people, as Megan tells me you are?”

“My Dad works in a deli,” she said. “And he’s - he’s pretty much it.”

“Hmm,” said Vivian, and looked Ginsberg over. From the top of her fuzzy head to her men’s loafers, which she made no comment on. “I’ll show you to your lodgings,” she declared. “Follow along, please.”

What was there to do but obey?

Ginsberg tried not to speak for fear of tripping over her tongue. Not that Vivian noticed - she was perfectly capable of filling up a silence. “The guesthouse is arts and crafts style,” she said, pronouncing it ‘cr _aw_ fts’. “It’s one story but has all the correct amenities. I had it built in 1939 and decorated by Billy Haines: to my specifications of course. There’s a working telephone and a line to the main house; I’ll show you how to operate it. But please don’t expect to get me directly. Babette will answer and you can leave a message with her if needed.” She threw open the door, “It’s a very comfortable house,” she said. “I think it will be appropriate for your circumstances.”

The house was… pink.

_Very_ pink. Pink like the inside of a strawberry. The walls, the couch, the bedspread, the carpet. The furniture was white, but that had the effect of lace on a valentine.

“It’s perfect,” Ginsberg said. “I love it.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Megan trying keep a smile off her face.

“I’ll leave you today to get settled in,” Vivian said. “We’ll get started on your duties tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. I’ll meet you in the drawing room. You can come to the back door - Babette will show you in.”

_Babette_ , Ginsberg mouthed at Megan, who pressed the back of her hand to her lips and looked away with suspicious speed. Yeah, of course her name was Babette.

“Thanks, Miss Lennox,” Ginsberg said. “I’ll be there nine sharp, don’t worry.”

“Vivian, dear,” she said. “I’m past being a “Miss” anything. And I never worry.”

She did the cheek kiss thing with Megan before going. Ginsberg hoped that wouldn’t be expected of her. “Always love to see you, darling,” she said, and floated out the door.

“So what do you think?” Megan asked.

“Of Miss - Vivian? Or of the accommodations?”

“Either. Both.”

“She seems nice,” said Ginsberg, in a way she hoped communicated _I promise I won’t fuck up, I swear I won’t_. “Kinda intimidating.”

“Well,” Megan said. She flopped down on the bed, stretching across the satin rose-patterned bedspread, and lit a cigarette. “She’s a very grand lady.”

Ginsberg moved around the room. She picked up things and examined them as she went, little tchotchkes that were scattered around. A brass candlestick. A statue of a woman in a big hat. “How’d you meet?”

“She needed someone to drive her home from a meeting at Paramount,” Megan said. “She was thinking of investing in a movie. I volunteered.”

“You work at Paramount?” Ginsberg asked. “I didn’t know.”

Megan exhaled smoke. She lay back on the pillow and crossed her ankles. “No,” she said. “I just know someone there. Anyway, we got to talking and she invited me in. She likes young people, I think. She told me she gets tired of all the old skeletons complaining about their joints and how much better everything used to be.” She grinned and tapped the cigarette into a bedside ashtray. “Oh, and she listens to the Beatles.”

Ginsberg sat next to her. The mattress was springy and soft, nothing like the lumpy one she slept on at home. “I get a whole house to myself. That’s exciting. Even if it’s…”

“... a little girly for your tastes?”

Ginsberg looked quickly at her. She wasn’t practiced at - at denying certain things, yet.

The smile Megan gave her was intimate, reassuring. “It wasn’t that hard to guess,” she said. “If I’m being honest.”

Ginsberg traced the petals of an embroidered bloom that was conveniently under her fingers. “Do you think other people are guessing?”

Megan bit her lip. “Um. I think they probably are, now. What with the new look and everything.”

“Right,” said Ginsberg. “Is it weird that I kinda forgot? I’m not used to being noticed.” She had always been the mousy one at the back of the room, the one whose hair wouldn’t behave, who couldn’t walk in heels and had her slip showing more often than not. It was, in a way, armor. There was a lot you could do when you were invisible. But people were starting to notice her, and not always in a flattering way. She got looks, when they caught on that she wasn’t the baby-faced young man they thought they were seeing. It had happened on the plane.

Standing out hadn’t been her goal. She was tired, that was all, tired of the weight of lipstick and powder and perfume. Tired of trying and failing. She cut off her hair so she could hold her head up high.

“You will be,” said Megan. “If we go to the right places. I’ll introduce you to the sewing circle.”

“You sew?”

Megan laughed. “In a way. You’ll see.” She put her cigarette out and stood up. “Do you have plans tonight? I’m meeting some friends at Whisky a Go-Go.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“If you want it to be,” Megan said. “They’re nice girls, you’d like them.”

She kind of wanted to. And Megan was being so kind, offering to show her around, to take her out. But it had been a long day, and she would be meeting strangers. She wasn’t so good at meeting strangers anymore. Everything she said came out like a bad pitch.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I gotta unpack. Travelling takes it out of me.”

Megan nodded. “I thought you might feel that way. We can always go another time.” She paused in the doorway, leaning against it. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I really am.”

“Me too,” said Ginsberg. “And thanks for - you’ve done so much -”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” Megan said. “You could do this job in your sleep.” She pointed a finger in Ginsberg’s direction. “And I want to hear from you, okay? Call me once in awhile. No making yourself into a hermit.”

“I will,” said Ginsberg. “Cross my heart.”

 

 

Ginsberg woke in her strawberries and cream bedroom to the sound of someone breathing.

She froze, the blankets pulled up to her neck. One hand crept towards the bedside table, reaching for a telephone, a lamp, a _weapon_ -

There came a soggy sounding sneeze, and a small bark. Ginsberg jolted upwards. The pomeranian dog at the foot of the bed didn’t move. It huffed, wagging its curly tail, and sneezed again. It was light brown, with a face like a newborn fox and beady black eyes.

“What the fuck?” Ginsberg asked. The dog spun in a circle and shot out of the room like a small round bullet.

There was a doggy door present that she hadn’t noticed yesterday. He had already gone through it by the time she reached the living room - perhaps he expected her to follow. She didn’t.

There was food in the fridge, and coffee in the cupboards. The clock on the wall - shaped like a silver star - told her that it was only half-past five in the morning. “Fuck,” she said again, and made herself some of each. Eggs and hashbrowns, coffee with lots of sugar and no milk. It was fancy and rich; no Folgers, this. The beans were probably harvested by white-clad virgins.

A shower woke her up the rest of the way, but there was no sense in going up to the house so early. She had a feeling Vivian Lennox did not appreciate being bothered before her morning ablutions were complete. Not the kind of lady who went to get the newspaper in her housecoat.

She turned on the morning news. The television was old, a black and white set. Almost the same kind they had at home, which was comforting. The news, however, was not.

It was about those murders again. Wild-eyed Charlie Manson’s mugshot was up. He looked like every guy who panhandled down in Times Square, playing a guitar or a tambourine. Ginsberg shut the TV off.

She had the urge to call her father, which she disregarded. What was she gonna do, call him every time she saw something disturbing on the news? She had to learn to deal with it herself.

Being in the institution had taken her a step out of time. She had only known what she read in the newspaper or saw during television hour. But she had been aware of the killings, had lain awake thinking about them until she dropped off from sheer exhaustion. Eventually she had pestered Peggy for Megan’s phone number.

Peggy didn’t get it. “She’s fine,” she kept saying, as they ate their yogurts in the visitor's room. “Wouldn’t we have heard something if she wasn’t?”

But Ginsberg had insisted. Who else was going to look in on her? _Don_?

She’d called from the telephone at the front desk with a nurse breathing down her neck. They didn’t like that she was calling long distance, but she promised it wouldn’t take long. “We’re allowed phone calls, right?” she had asked. “This isn’t jail.” The nurse handed the receiver over, her eyes cold and disinterested.

“Five minutes,” she said, and tapped her watch.

It took maybe four. Ginsberg launched into an explanation as soon as Megan picked up. “Um, hello Megan - this is Michaela Ginsberg, I’m calling because -”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Did something happen?”

“No. Well, kind of. I’m in the hospital. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“I heard,” she said. “How are you doing?”

Ginsberg eyed the nurse. “I feel great,” she lied. “But I’m calling because I saw in the newspaper the other day - about these murders -”

“Isn’t that _awful_?” Megan said. “Everyone out here is terrified. I have all my doors and windows locked even though it’s like a hundred degrees in the shade. I won’t even go out on the balcony.”

“Good,” said Ginsberg. “That’s good, Megan. Stay safe, okay?”

There was a pause, and no way to tell what Megan was thinking during it. “Oh,” she said. “You called to see how _I_ was doing.”

Ginsberg wondered if she’d done something wrong. Been a creep, by accident. She was so bad at telling. “Yeah,” she said, eventually. “When I saw the news I thought of you.”

“Thank you,” Megan said. “That’s very sweet. Are you getting much company in there?”

“My Dad,” she said. “Peggy comes up occasionally.”

“Not Stan?”

Ginsberg pulled the sleeves of her pyjamas down. It was becoming a tic, but one she couldn’t help. Like palsy. “No. Not Stan.”

“That surprises me,” said Megan, and she didn’t sound like she approved. “You seemed so close.”

“It’s not his fault,” said Ginsberg. “I’m sure he’s busy.” because Megan didn’t understand - she _couldn’t_ understand. She didn’t know what Ginsberg had done. She didn’t know that Stan had tried to see her, and she wouldn’t come out, and the nurses made him go away when she started crying. It was all her own fault, just like everything else.

The nurse had turned towards her. She adjusted her white square hat and frowned, holding her wrist aloft. The watch face flashed in the sunlight. “Five minutes, Miss Ginsberg. I’m counting.”

“Who was that?” Megan asked.

“The nurse,” said Ginsberg. “I gotta go, our phone calls are limited.”

“That’s bitchy of her,” said Megan. “Maybe I should come out and tell her so.”

Ginsberg laughed. She checked to make sure Megan hadn’t been overheard. “I’d love that. Really.”

“Great,” said Megan. “Then I will.”

Two weeks later she was standing in the lobby, dressed like she was going to a nightclub. The nurse manning the station - a different one, this time, but they were all pretty near the same - was annoyed by Megan’s very being. She kept looking down at her bare legs judgmentally and then slowly back up at her face; a hint that Megan refused to take. “You better be treating her well,” she was saying, mock playfully. “She’s a very special girl.”

“I’ll bet,” said the nurse, and Ginsberg knew in that moment that she’d gotten it all wrong, and thought that Megan was her girlfriend.

“She’s my friend,” she said. “Megan is my friend. We worked together.”

“Hi honey,” Megan said, and Christ, that wasn’t helping.

Ginsberg peered at the nurse from under her hair. “There goes my dessert tonight,” she said, and shook her head at Megan’s questioning look. “Forget it. Want to go outside?”

They sat down on the bench next to what amounted to the hospital’s garden. The flowerbed contained a row of wilted geraniums flanked by a sad poppy or two. Primarily it housed cigarette butts, thrown down by visitors or patients. But the sky was clear and the sun was shining. Megan had changed, somehow. She was less strained. And she kept smiling.

“You look happy,” Ginsberg said.

“Freedom suits me,” she replied, and that was when she told Ginsberg about the divorce.

 

 

Not that it was finalized yet, she reminded herself. Megan seemed very optimistic about the whole process. “I was upset at first,” she’d told Ginsberg while they drove in from the airport. “But this way we can both move on with our lives. Make a clean break.”

Ginsberg had her doubts, thinking back to all the times Don had insulted her, had implied she wasn’t good enough for her job, had done shit like leave her work in a fucking cab to take a slap at her. Because what, she hadn’t fallen at his feet the way other women did? He didn’t seem like he could do _anything_ clean.

But what did she know - she hadn’t been married to the guy. Maybe he wanted to get his life in order, too. Crazier things had happened.

Vivian was awake and dressed for the morning when Ginsberg went to the main house. That didn’t mean dressed for the _day_ , mind you. She was wearing an elaborate dressing gown, embroidered with peacocks, and a turban. Babette led Ginsberg in to where their mutual employer was breakfasting on pastries and coffee presented on a silver tray. She was sitting at huge desk that must have been an antique. There were stained glass panels in the attached cabinets up top and a series of tiny drawers running down the sides.

“Sit down,” said Vivian, and Ginsberg did on a chair that wouldn’t have been out of place in Marie Antoinette's boudoir. Vivian slid the tray towards her. “Have a croissant.”

“I ate,” said Ginsberg. “But thanks.”

Vivian peered closely at her face. She may have had some vision problems but her eyes were clearly good enough to have Ginsberg’s number. “You look tired,” she said.

“I woke up,” Ginsberg said. “It was - you have a dog, I guess?”

“Ah, yes,” said Vivian. “Puppet.”

Ginsberg stared. “... Puppet?”

“Yes,” said Vivian, placidly. “Puppet. He likes to go for a walk in the morning.”

“Okay,” said Ginsberg. “I’ll bring him out tomorrow, I guess. If he wants. You got a leash?”

“Babette will provide one for you,” said Vivian. She unfolded a paper in front of her and Ginsberg realized it was the Wall Street Journal. She had a bunch of notes all over it. As Ginsberg watched she circled a couple of numbers in red pen.

They sat in silence for a few minutes and Ginsberg kept wondering if she was supposed to be saying or doing something. Then Vivian straightened up and plucked a piece of paper from a notepad. She handed it to Ginsberg.

“This is your task list for the day,” she said. “You’ll get one each morning. And of course you’ll have regular duties for each day: calling my stockbroker for the daily report, answering my mail and sending out anything I give you, taking messages and updating my schedule with any new events.” She handed a leather-bound book to Ginsberg. “Here it is. I want it updated by five at night and placed back on this desk before you leave. And I tell people to call between ten and one o’clock, so please be at your desk during those hours. All other calls will be taken by Babette, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I have a desk?” Ginsberg asked.

She did. It had the same faux-french look as all the other furniture, white curlicues and gold edging. There was a typewriter and a telephone, even a gadget for making wax seals.

“Is all of this clear?” Vivian asked, and looked like she might have some suspicions about how much Ginsberg was picking up.

“Yes,” said Ginsberg, quickly. “Phone calls ten to one, schedule and mail, run errands.” There was a pile of mail on the desk - she figured she could start with that. Vivian took her leave, sweeping out of the room in a flurry of blue silk.

The mail had a few personal items - letters from friends or admirers - but for the most part it was business correspondence that Ginsberg couldn’t understand, even after all her time in advertising. She placed both on Vivian’s own desk. Then the phone started to ring, and she began noting items down in the book.

She got two invitations for parties, one for a benefit, and a call from her business manager in Texas. That was in the first hour. Her life was a hell of a lot busier than Ginsberg would have expected. She’d been picturing a woman shut up in some dusty mansion, missing her lost career. Vivian Lennox hadn’t been onscreen since the thirties.

But in the twenties she’d been the star of stars. Almost on a Chaplin level. She’d made a million bucks a year - in 1920’s money. She had _been_ Hollywood. Even Ginsberg knew it.

But that was a different Hollywood, not the one she was sitting in now. Not the one where Megan couldn’t get a part, where hippies crawled in windows at night with knives, where ex-mental patients sorted mail for women who once owned the spotlight.

It was a tough town. But at least the sun never stopped shining.

 

 

Ginsberg struggled with the boxes she was carrying. She had Vivian’s dry cleaning draped across the top and couldn’t see where she was stepping. “Sorry,” she said, “sorry,” making her way through the crowd and trying not to bump into anyone, right up until a pair of hands reached over and relieved her of part of her burden. “What,” Ginsberg said, but it was only Megan, grinning at her and tucking packages under her arm.

“She’s running you ragged, huh?” she asked.

“She’s not exactly the retiree I was expecting,” Ginsberg admitted.

“Let me buy you lunch,” Megan said. “You look like you could use a break.”

They went to a coffee shop and got sandwiches and espresso they ate out on the sidewalk. Megan pulled out a fat wad of bills from her purse to pay for the food.

“Holy shit,” said Ginsberg. “So did you get a job? What in? Tell me!”

“It’s from Don,” Megan said. Shame flashed across her face. “He’s still helping me out. Just until I get something, you know?”

“Of course,” said Ginsberg, feeling bad for embarrassing her. “Well, that’s nice. Him being supportive.”

But Ginsberg saying so made it worse, somehow. Megan looked like she would rather have a dental exam than talk about Don. She smiled too brightly at the waitress and didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands.

“I haven’t seen much of you lately,” Ginsberg said, just to be saying something, and immediately worried it had sounded like an accusation. But Megan looked more relaxed. She leaned back in her chair and raised her cup to her lips.

“Do you _want_ to?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Ginsberg. “Why wouldn’t I? I know you’re probably always busy, but -”

“What about today?” Megan asked. “After you’re done work?” And that was how Megan ended up in Vivian Lennox’s pool, cutting through the water like a mermaid.

It was a bit too cool for swimming, but that didn’t matter - Vivian’s pool was indoors, in a structure that resembled a giant greenhouse. You could go out the back onto the grounds or through the front into the house. Megan wore a yellow bikini and Ginsberg couldn’t stop looking at her.

She tried to stop, to cool down her hammering heart. But it was hard when Megan kept trying to coax her in.

“C’mon,” she said, wrapping a hand around Ginsberg’s ankle, whose feet were the only part of her in the water. “Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”

“I can swim,” said Ginsberg. “I don’t have a suit.”

Megan shrugged. “What about your underwear? We’re the only ones here. Vivian isn’t even home.”

Ginsberg met her eyes, startled. Megan was smiling slightly. Her thumb was rubbing in circles on Ginsberg’s ankle. Was she flirting with - _no_ , that was impossible. That was pigs flying and ice skating in hell.

“You - I can’t -” said Ginsberg, who was saved from having to speak in full sentences by Puppet attempting to drown himself.

He ran straight at the pool. Ginsberg expected him to stop at the edge, wiggling around and wagging his tail like he did, but instead he plunged right in. The water closed over his head and Ginsberg dove in after him, panicking. She could _not_ be responsible for the death of Vivian’s dog. She loved him so much she bought him a diamond collar, for god’s sake. Ginsberg would be sent back to New York immediately, probably in pieces.

She broke the surface of the water when she couldn’t find him. “ _Where_ -” she said, spitting out the taste of chlorine, only to have Puppet float gently past, huffing slightly, his paws moving him along like a little motorboat. He tried to lick her face.

Puppet was deposited into Babette’s arms, looking like a drenched rat. He had enjoyed his adventure and remained unrepentant. Megan and Ginsberg made their way back to the guesthouse, dashing through the crisp air.

Megan got a towel from the bathroom and draped it over Ginsberg’s head. She started rubbing her down, especially her hair.

“Dogs can swim,” she said. “Almost all of them. It’s called a doggy-paddle for a reason. You didn’t have to jump in after him.”

“How was I supposed to know?” she asked. “He seems like he could drown in a toilet.”

“Aww,” said Megan. “He just wanted to have some fun with us.” She was smiling at Ginsberg when she pulled the towel off, presumably because of the ridiculous sight before her. Hair everywhere, clothes dripping and plastered to her body.

Megan had also been in the pool, but the effect was very different on her - what with her curves and her legs and her fading tanlines. The unobtainable summer crush personified. Ginsberg tried not to notice the way drops of water ran down her collarbones and collected in the space between her breasts. Her hands were cool on Ginsberg’s face. She combed her fingertips through her hair.

“There,” she said. “All better.”

Ginsberg swallowed. “Great,” she said. “I feel great.” She felt like she’d been called up to the chalkboard and didn’t know the answer.

“You look great,” Megan said - no, murmured, her eyelashes lowered like this was a completely different scenario than it was. Or could possibly be. “You have really beautiful eyes, you know? They stand out this way.”

“You have such beautiful eyes, Mr. Wolf,” Ginsberg rambled, because sometimes her mouth opened and words automatically came out.

“It’s big eyes,” said Megan. “Though yes, they’re that, too. But I don’t think you’re the wolf here, are you?”

Ginsberg couldn’t take her big eyes off Megan’s mouth. It was so soft. And not very far away. Not as far away as it should have been, because she was standing very close.

“Have you ever been with a woman?” Megan asked.

“No,” said Ginsberg.

“Do you want to be?”

“Jesus,” she said. Her breath stuttered out of her. “Jesus Christ, _yes_.”

Megan backed her towards the bed. She slid her hands up under Ginsberg’s shirt, on her sides. Could her hammering pulse be felt? The desire that was leaking from her skin? “I was going to take you to a lesbian bar,” she said. “But I decided I didn’t want to share.”

“That’s kinda fucked up, Megan.”

“I know,” she said, and they fell onto the mattress together.

They kissed for the first time with Megan’s hands deep in Ginsberg’s hair, quick and dirty and needy. Bumping noses and teeth, imperfect - but that didn’t make it any less good. It wasn’t like she had imagined it: there had always been a haze around Ginsberg’s fantasies, blurred where she didn’t have details to fill in. This, though, was different. Lush and alive and immediate. Megan’s body a reality against her; Megan kissing her over and over, each time an electric jolt. Megan peeling her wet shirt off, gasping in a delighted way at the sight of her.

“Oh god,” said Ginsberg. She had to close her eyes. “Oh god, oh god -”

Megan spread her fingers across the center of Ginsberg’s chest. “No bra?”

“It’s hot out,” she said, strangled. She was going to spontaneously combust before they even did anything.

“You’re shaking,” Megan said. “Scared?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “And excited. I don’t want you to stop.”

“I’ll be very gentle,” she promised, and proceeded to bite Ginsberg’s nipple.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Ginsberg cursed, twisting off the bed, eyes popping open. It was more a spike of sensation than pain, and when Megan soothed the sting with a swipe of her tongue it made it worse, or better, or fuck - she didn’t know.

Megan laughed. “You like that?”

“Do it again,” she panted. She tugged at the back of Megan’s bikini top until it came undone.

Megan dropped her mouth down. She made Ginsberg squirm, kissed the side of her ribs, the hollow of her collarbones. Scraped her teeth down her sternum. “I could eat you up,” she said.

“Fucked up,” said Ginsberg. She had goosebumps, her body a raw nerve. Was sex like this for everyone? How did they treat it so casually? “Frankly cannibalistic -”

Megan pulled her pants, her underwear, off and down. She opened Ginsberg’s thighs and pushed her legs up and back. Exposing her. (Ginsberg, overwhelmed, covered her face with a pillow.)

“Having sex with girls is easy,” she said, and punctuated her statement with a lick. Like she was kissing Ginsberg’s mouth, making her way inside. Spread her apart with her thumbs and blew a breath over her swollen flesh. Then another lick, agonizingly slow. “We smell good, we taste good - you’ll see. Just let me take care of you.” And she stopped talking altogether.

Ginsberg’s toes curled at the sensation. Her head fell back against the sheets; it was too much effort to keep it up, to try and look. All she could do was - was experience it, was concentrate on the wet, hot mouth on her cunt. For once she wasn’t over thinking. For once she wasn’t thinking at all.

She grabbed her own hair. “Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” she said, mewling as Megan ate her out, burying her tongue inside, pressing against her clit with the pad of her thumb to keep her warmed up. Making her wait for the good stuff, but it was all so good, so good already. And sloppy and messy and fucking _dirty_ -

The _noises_ they made together, god.

Megan gentled her mouth, luring Ginsberg into complacence. Kittenish licks that made her sigh. Her thighs relaxed, her heels sliding down Megan’s back. Megan had been rubbing her clit lightly, just a tease, but she moved her fingers aside to fasten her lips there instead. One hard suck -

\- and Ginsberg came, or she _thought_ she came, except what came next was even _better_ -

\- because Megan rubbed her tongue over Ginsberg’s clit over and over, until she was curling up on her side, cursing, whimpering, oversensitive, unable to speak. Pulling away, grabbing at Megan’s hair when she tried to move. Spiraling out until she went nuclear. Fuck, she wasn’t even sure when the orgasm happened. It was opened-ended.

She sprawled out across the bed, after, staring up at the ceiling. Megan came into view. She was smiling fondly down and her cheeks were all flushed.

“Holy shit,” Ginsberg said.

“Mmhmm,” Megan said. “Anyone ever do that for you before?”

“No.”

“God,” Megan said. “Your boyfriends must have sucked.” Ginsberg didn’t get a chance to correct her, because Megan was scooting back against the headboard and spreading her legs. Which was far more important. “Watch me,” she said.

She took off her bikini bottoms and tossed them aside. Post-climax Ginsberg had gone limp and boneless; now her pulse started to race at the sight of Megan all laid out for her; the elegant curve of her neck as her head fell back, her nipples hard and her chest rising and falling, the way her thighs tensed as she pushed her fingers into herself.

“Can I touch you?” Ginsberg asked. “Can I please touch you?”

“Soon,” she said. “Just - just watch -”

She worked herself halfway there, eyes half closed, looking straight at Ginsberg until she couldn’t anymore. Her hips lifted off the bed as she pumped her fingers in and out, as she rubbed her clit against the heel of her other hand. Her eyes closed, a flash of white teeth digging into her lip, her breath gone ragged.

She looked like a miracle.

Ginsberg hooked her hands under Megan’s knees and pulled her down the bed, closer. She held Megan’s legs open for her. “Let me see,” she said, “ _Oh_ \- let me see you.” Megan laughed, wild and free.

And Ginsberg wanted her so bad, wanted to lick her fingers clean and do a million other dirty things that would have _killed_ her to think about only a few hours ago -

\- wanted to do anything for her, anything she wanted, and so Ginsberg said, “Baby, please,” in a voice that broke halfway through, and Megan cried out and scrabbled at Ginsberg’s hair, her shoulders, anything she could reach.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

Ginsberg put her mouth between Megan’s legs and learned how to make her scream.

 

 

She floated in the aftermath, more than she had while in the water. She and Megan kissed, lazily, like there was nowhere else they’d rather be and nothing else they’d rather be doing. And there wasn’t. Not until Megan pulled away and looked muzzily around for a clock.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Mm?” Ginsberg asked. She had fallen back into the pillows. She had no time for clocks or appointments or schedules. She felt too damn good. “Are you hungry? I’m kinda hungry. We should go get something to eat.” Did having sex give you the munchies? Was that what was happening? Because more than one of her motors was turned on and revving.

Megan stretched. Ginsberg got to watch her do it, openly, which was very nice. “I wish I could,” she said, and stood up to collect her clothes from the top of the dresser, where she had left them after changing into her swimsuit.

“Got another girl lined up?”

Megan made a face. “No, I have a date with this guy. It’s so stupid. He’s probably going to be completely boring. They usually are.”

She headed for the bathroom, her dress tucked under one arm and her shoes dangling from her hand. Ginsberg lay stock still on the bed and listened to the sound of the door closing. At which point she popped up, frowning, and looked blankly at it.

“What the _hell_?” she asked.

 

 

Okay. So they had different expectations. She’d made - an assumption, that was all. Which wasn’t the end of the world. They were still friends, and they’d see each other again. And maybe something would happen.

Or maybe it wouldn’t.

“Michaela?” Vivian asked. She was glancing at Ginsberg in disapproval over the tops of her reading glasses. “Have you heard one word I said?”

“Yes, yes,” said Ginsberg, crossing her fingers that Vivian wouldn’t ask any specific questions. “Um. You were saying -”

She had nothing. They stared at each other.

I had sex with a woman, she wanted to yell at the top of her lungs.

She didn’t, though. She wasn’t that crazy.

 

 

One of Ginsberg’s jobs was to go collect Vivian’s friends when she wanted to see them. Most of them didn’t drive anymore, on account of being an elderly collection of cataracts. The ones who still had drivers - who still had money - came on their own. But many of them had fallen on hard times, or chased after them: bad investments, broken careers, falling into scandal or out of the public eye. Being in the pictures didn’t prepare them to do anything else. Not when some of them had started working when they were only babies or dewy eyed fourteen year olds, playing orphans and plucky orphans for an audience that would never hear their voices. Some of them adapted, trained their accents, or just moved on to other jobs. But few of them stayed rich like Vivian did.

She helped them out. “Never forget old loyalties,” she advised Ginsberg. “One day they’ll be the only kind you have left.”

Tonight’s attendees were Jerry Goldman, Phillipa Blatchford, and Lily Wu. Ginsberg picked up Jerry first.

He came out of his nursing home, leaning on an orderly’s arm and dragging a suitcase behind him. The sunlight bounced off the top of his bald head, which rose through his curly white hair like a mountain through clouds. He smiled as soon as he saw her, his face collapsing into a riot of friendly wrinkles.

Jerry had been a film editor. He’d worked with Orson Welles back in the day. And he came from Ginsberg’s neighborhood, of all places, so they always had a lot to talk about. The first time they met he’d reminisced about Katz’s pastrami so intensely he had seemed to step entirely into the past. He had more lust in his eyes for that sandwich than if it had been a line of dancing girls. “There’s nothing like it out here,” he’d sighed.

“Don’t wait up for me,” he said to the orderly.

“Sir, you have to be back by seven,” the orderly said.

“Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Fine,” the orderly conceded.

“Whatcha got in the bag, Jerry?” Ginsberg called out as they walked up to the car. She swung the door open so he could get in and hopped out herself. “Blueprints? Ming vases? You guys planning a heist? I won’t drive you.”

Jerry beamed. “Films,” he said, when she opened the trunk. “Real good ones.”

“He’s not supposed to have those in his room,” the orderly said.

Next was Phillipa. She left them waiting for twenty minutes, cooling their heels in the drive, which was typical. Jerry leaned on the horn. “Cooome on,” he yelled. “What’re you doing, pinning your face back?” A cat appeared in the window, unimpressed with them.

Ginsberg swatted him away from the wheel. “ _Jerry_!”

“She does it on purpose,” said Jerry. “Thinks she’s making an entrance, as if there’s anywhere to make an entrance _to_ anymore.”

Of course she was only gonna make them wait longer for that; and she did, emerging from her modest, slightly shabby house in a long green coat with fur on the edges. It looked too warm for the weather.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Blatchford,” Ginsberg said, because Phillipa _didn’t_ want to be called by her first name. At least not where the help was concerned. Jerry knew this, and he rolled his eyes.

Phillipa smiled. She was a tall woman with thin hair that she teased out around her head to hide its loss of body, and still dyed it wheat-blonde. “Hello,” she said, faintly, and got in the back seat. She never did talk to Ginsberg much.

Lily Wu had the best setup of any of them. She lived in an apartment above an antiques store that her parents had owned before her and their parents before them. It had a rooftop garden with a huge ornate birdbath in it. Some admirer had given it to her. She’d worked in America, Europe, China. She’d had to trot across the globe just to find good parts - anything where she didn’t have to wear a cheongsam, she said. (Ginsberg wasn’t sure what that was, and didn’t know if it was rude to ask). And that had all ended with the crash of the second world war. So she went back to the family business. It supported her well enough. She’d met a lot of rich people in her years in Hollywood, and they _did_ like to buy themselves a bit of instant class.

She liked to sit up there and smoke, even though the doctor told her not to. “Behold,” she said, when she’d shown the birdbath to Ginsberg. “The world’s most expensive ashtray.”

Lily and Phillipa never spoke except at Vivian’s get togethers. Apparently there had been a fallout in their youth. Something to do with a man. They exchange a curt nod and a wall of ice leapt up between them. Ginsberg hit the gas.

Vivian and Babette were setting up a projector when they arrived. The snacks were already out on the table: vegetables and dip, mostly, since Vivian was all about maintaining health and also her twenty-four inch waist.

Ginsberg watched them work. “Do we have a fire extinguisher?” she asked.

“We could play cards instead,” Lily said. She sat on Vivian’s striped couch with her feet tucked up underneath her and popped a piece of ranch dressing coated celery in her mouth. “I did bring money.”

“You cheat,” Phillipa said. She sat as far away from Lily as she could manage and turned up her nose at the food. “If I am remembering correctly.”

“You aren’t,” she said, sweetly, and fished a cigarette out of her purse. “Bridge, then. And no money involved. Can you remember the rules? You always did have trouble with your lines.”

“I dragged these all the way here,” said Jerry. “We’re watching ‘em.”

“ _She_ brought them in, not you,” said Phillipa, gesturing at Ginsberg, who was minding her own business and eating a slice of orange. She was determined to fight with everyone apparently. “You didn’t lift a finger!”

“Miss Ginsberg has a very strong back,” said Lily, and winked at her.

“Stop it, all of you,” Vivian said. “What have you got here, Jerry?”

“The General, Grand Hotel, Dodsworth, A Free Soul -”

Lily groaned. “And his crush on Norma Shearer raises its head again. You know you couldn’t have pried her and Irving apart with a crowbar.”

Jerry glared at her. “I wouldn’t have tried. I respected her. She was a _lady_.” He held up two film canisters that weren’t differentiated in any way that Ginsberg could see. “And did I not also bring Mary and Joan?”

“Put it to a vote,” Vivian said.

They chose Dodsworth and Grand Hotel. Jerry looked disappointed but accepted the will of the group. He fed the film into the machine. Ginsberg observed with interest; she had never seen it done up close before. The projector made a silken whir as it started up, a thin sliver light flickering on the screen. And then the movie began. A hush fell over the room. She reflected on how odd it was, and how beautiful, to be watching these movies with famous faces that she’d seen moving across their tiny TV when she was a little girl, wrapped in fantastic couture, creating glamour as the world would come to know it. Ginsberg wasn’t an easily impressed person. But this was special.

So was the gossip. They knew everything about everybody. Now they were discussing Mary Astor’s purple diary.

“What the hell is a purple diary?” Ginsberg asked. She’d made herself popcorn, because it wasn’t a movie without popcorn. On-screen Astor’s character was advising Mrs. Dodsworth not to cheat on her perfectly nice husband. She was still going to, naturally. “My dear, _don’t_ ,” Astor said, in a rich warm voice. The sadness that flickered across her face suggested she had been here before, in one way or another.

“A dirty diary,” said Lily. “She chronicled her affair with George Kaufman. In _detail_. The ones that run cool on the outside always burn hot on the inside.”

“Really?” Ginsberg looked at Mary Astor. She had an angular, patrician beauty. Not the kind of woman you would imagine steaming up the sheets, or the page. But there was something about her eyes. There was longing in those eyes.

“Anyway, the press got their hands on it during her divorce,” said Lily. A ring of smoke rose above her head, and she paused to watch the images on the screen. “She lost custody of her daughter. Had to to fight to get her back.”

“Shit,” said Ginsberg. She was so glad she didn’t have kids. It gave you so much to worry about. And god knew there were things about her that wouldn’t play out well in divorce court.

She wondered, suddenly, how Megan’s divorce was going. If she was relieved that she and Don never had any children, that a complication had been avoided.

Out in the hall the phone rang, disturbing the peace. “I got it,” Ginsberg said, and jumped to her feet.

“Hello,” she said, phone to her ear, leaning back against the wall. In the movie room they were laughing about something.

“Hey,” Megan said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“I was just thinking about you,” said Ginsberg, because she never did have any sense. She would have tried to recover - probably badly - but Megan made a pleased sound, almost flirtatious.

“ _Really_ ,” she said, in a kind of faux innocence that was the least innocent thing on the planet. “What about me?”

Ginsberg couldn’t help herself, the way she went hot from her scalp to her toes, nervous system lighting up in a series of small but devastating explosions. She would have glowed in the dark. And she was glad she was alone, that nobody could ask her questions about the roses surely blooming her cheeks, the sheen of desire in her eyes.

She cleared her throat. “Good things. I promise good things.”

“I called the guesthouse a couple times but you weren’t there,” she said. “If Vivian had answered this one I would have hung up. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Or tip anyone off about what they were doing. Or had done. Once. She was trying to keep herself afloat during a divorce, and Ginsberg wouldn’t put it past Don to - well. She wouldn’t put much past him, in general. “You aren’t,” Ginsberg reassured her. She’s having friends over, and they’re talking shop. About a diary and some secret affair.”

“Write everything down,” Megan instructed. “That’ll be a goldmine one day.”

“I will.” Ginsberg ran her tongue along her lips. “So. Um. Why’d you call?”

“You have Saturday off, right?”

“Sure.”

“I’m having a little party,” Megan said. “I think it could be improved by your presence.”

Ginsberg peeked into the drawing room. No one was paying any attention to her. “Okay.”

“Wow,” Megan said. “I thought I’d have to convince you.”

There was a warmth in the pit of her stomach at the idea that Megan would want to. That she wanted her there enough to take special interest. “I’m convinced,” she said. “You won.”

“Good,” Megan said. “Seven o’clock. You don’t have to bring anything.”

She smiled at everyone when she came back into the room. Her feet barely touched the ground. The conversation had descended into an argument about whether Marlene Dietrich was a lesbian. “Marlene was a very feminine woman,” Phillipa was scoffing. “Don’t let the trousers fool you.”

Jerry got all puffed up, which wasn’t very impressive since he was only about Ginsberg’s height. “So was my sister,” he said. “And she was a lesbian. So there.”

“Who was on the phone?” Vivian asked.

“Someone selling something,” Ginsberg said. Vivian gave her a significant look. She pretended not to know what it meant.

 

 

Ginsberg dressed carefully for Megan’s shindig. She ironed her shirt and made sure her shoes matched and everything. There wasn’t that much she could do with her hair but she tried anyway, smoothing it down with gel.

The party was in full swing when she got there. It wasn’t Megan who answered the door but one of her friends, a girl in a long dress and a hippie headband. She looked Ginsberg up and down.

“I think you have the wrong address, hon,” she drawled, eyes drooping with the force of her high.

“No,” said Ginsberg, stiffly. “I’m supposed to be here. This is Megan’s apartment, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm,” said the girl, and wandered off leaving the door wide open.

Ginsberg went in and closed it. She had never been to Megan’s apartment before; Megan always came to hers, maybe because it gave them a whole house to hang out in. It wasn’t as big as she might have expected with Don footing the bill, but it was big enough. Ginsberg liked the fireplace, the sheer orange curtains, and Megan’s collection of kitschy teapots above the stove. She picked one up, smiling. It was hip and homey and nothing like the Draper’s apartment in New York had been. So this was Megan’s taste, then, unvarnished. It was always interesting to see how people lived. Like a look inside their brains.

The place was elbow to elbow with people. There were dishes of food on every available surface and bottles being passed from mouth to mouth. Someone was playing a sitar; someone else the drums. Ginsberg got mistaken for a dealer once and offered grass twice while crossing the floor. She didn’t find Megan until she went out on the balcony to check out the view.

Megan was wearing shorts and a blouse with big swingy sleeves. There was a guy hanging all over her. He resembled a discount version of Stan.

Ginsberg turned to leave but Megan saw her. “Hey!” she said, brightly, and disentangled herself from her gentleman caller. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for you,” she scolded. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” said Ginsberg. “I never met a city with so much traffic. And I thought New York was bad.”

Megan put her hand on the back of Ginsberg’s neck, steering her inside. “I’ll give you the grand tour,” she said, which consisted of kicking a couple off the couch so they could sit down. Who were reluctant to go, since they were attached at the lips.

“Kinda pushy,” Ginsberg said.

Megan shrugged. “It’s my apartment,” she said. “Besides, they’ll only go into the bedroom and fuck.”

“Oh,” said Ginsberg, embarrassed. She did in fact hear the door close but refused to acknowledge it. Megan grinned and nudged Ginsberg’s foot with hers. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I chose to have the party, I accept the risk. We’ll change the sheets later.”

“Right,” said Ginsberg, and tried to think of a less dangerous subject to be on than sex. Space travel. Richard Nixon. The Vietnam War. _Not_ thinking about the way Megan looked naked, with drops of water on her skin.

But Megan would not be deterred. “You look good,” she said, in a way that could only mean one thing, and fingered the collar of Ginsberg’s shirt. “I like this.”

“You do?” said Ginsberg. It was a western style shirt, dark blue, that she’d paired with jeans and some old canvas keds that were still kicking around from when she was a teenager. Everything was old and worn, but judging by the way this crowd dressed that wasn’t a bad thing. Manhattan this was not.

She really almost fit in.

“Except the hair,” said Megan.

“What?”

“Too flat.” Megan reached over and ruffled her hair, and Ginsberg kind of froze, an electric shock passing through her at their contact. Judging by Megan’s quiet - and unbearable - look of triumph, that was the point.

“Hey,” she called out to the crowd. “Someone get my friend a drink.” A bottle moved along a chain of hands, bobbing over their heads. It was a Heineken. Ginsberg used her shirt to get the cap off without scratching herself.

“So what’s the occasion?” she asked. “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

“No occasion,” said Megan. “It’s always a good time to see old friends.”

Ginsberg put her beer down on the coffee table. “Maybe I’ll stick around after,” she said, stealing a glance at Megan, who was watching her. Had been watching her since she sat down. “I’ll help you clean up.”

Megan smiled in a slow and knowing way. “What a nice offer,” she said, and stole Ginsberg’s beer.

 

 

Ginsberg’s idea of sex had always been a little rosy hued, before. A little blurred around the edges. A watercolor painting. She had been trying not to think about it all. What was it like, being with another woman? What could they do together?

The answer, it turned out, was anything they wanted.

Sex wasn’t a bed of rose petals. It was filthy and fantastic and she already couldn’t get enough.

Megan was riding her. Or she was riding the dildo Ginsberg had strapped to her, which made her giggle at first. It was just sticking up like a misplaced finger, looking so funny, and then Megan slid down with closed eyes and a grimace of pleasurable agony, her hands on Ginsberg’s shoulders, and it wasn’t funny at all.

The sound of their bodies together was dirty, a wet slap of flesh that made her gasp every time Megan bounced down into her lap. She was whining, clutching at the headboard behind Ginsberg’s head. Ginsberg stroked her back, kissed her parted lips, the side of her reddening neck - she was stained with pink, all strawberries and cream. Her hair was in her face.

Ginsberg squirmed. The way the damn harness was rubbing against her was maddening. It was almost enough to do something, and yet not even close.

“Here,” she said, and lifted her hips to meet Megan on the downstroke. “ _Here_ -”

Megan’s eyes opened. “Fuck,” she swore, and scrambled for one of Ginsberg’s hands, dragging it down between her legs.

One hand between her legs, rubbing fiercely, the other arm around her waist, and Ginsberg tipped Megan back and fucked and fucked and _fucked_. Megan’s legs fell wide open, she clawed at the blankets and shrieked -

“Oh god,” she said, coming down in a series of loose limbed shivers. “Oh god oh _god_.” This ended on a laugh. She whispered an endearment in hushed French and kissed the top of Ginsberg’s head. “ _Mon petit chou, mon trésor_.” Whatever that actually meant it sure sounded special. She stretched in a very satisfied way, a cat that got the canary. “You screw better than most men.”

“Really?” Ginsberg said. Maybe she was some kind of savant.

“Want to try it out?”

“The… dick?” Ginsberg asked, looking down in confusion. She was still on top of Megan. “I’m the one wearing it.”

“That can change,” Megan said. She gave Ginsberg’s shoulder a little shove. “Get on your back,” she said.

Ginsberg did, and Megan unstrapped her. She went into the bathroom and cleaned the whole rig off while Ginsberg waited, and got nervous. Wasn’t it supposed to be painful, for virgins?

But when Megan came back in with it on, she looked so proud and so dorky about it (hands on her hips, like she was posing) that Ginsberg couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Megan climbed up onto the bed eagerly. They kissed at first, on their sides facing each other, and Ginsberg started to relax. Megan pressed the head of the cock against her clit, and that felt really good. So she lay on her back and spread her legs, which probably looked more perfunctory than sexy.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“You sound so ominous,” said Megan. “It’s not any different than a real one, not really.” She got between Ginsberg’s thighs and pushed in.

Ginsberg winced. It stung, though not as bad as she might have built up in her head had she more time to think about it. Megan noticed right away.

“What?” she said, and stopped. “Am I hurting you?”

“First times usually do,” Ginsberg said. Megan pulled out immediately. There were a few small streaks of blood on the dildo, which Ginsberg made a face at. She looked up at Megan and was startled to see that she had gone completely gray.

“Oh my god,” she moaned, and scrambled off Ginsberg like she was made of hot coals.

“What?” Ginsberg said. “Are you afraid of blood?”

“I can’t believe I - I’m so sorry,” Megan stammered. Her mouth went soft, wobbly; she was close to tears.

“For what?” Ginsberg said, so baffled by this reaction that she couldn’t categorize it. The pain or the blood - it was such a small thing, a bump on the road to somewhere better. It wasn’t breaking an arm or splashing hot grease on herself. Megan had been gentle, really, had gone slow.

“I hurt you,” Megan said. “I made you _bleed_. Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?” She put her hand on the inside of Ginsberg’s thigh, like she was going to pull them open to check for injury.

“I thought you knew.”

“I wouldn’t have done that if I knew,” said Megan. “Do you want - Jesus, a warm bath or something? An aspirin?”

“A bath would be okay, I guess.” She said it more for Megan than herself, who clearly needed a task to do before she exploded with concern.

She felt weird, standing beside the tub naked and sore. Not how she had hoped to end the evening. They’d started it by racing each other to the bed, leaving the disaster of Megan’s apartment untouched behind them. They hadn’t been able to wait. There were empty bottles left on every piece of furniture and abandoned trays of food on the carpet. They had looked right past the mess, seeing only each other.

Megan poured in bubble bath from a bottle with flowers on the side. It smelled like violets as the water foamed up, carried by the rising steam. Ginsberg got in, grateful to sink down under the lather, thick and swirling as froth on the ocean.

Megan knelt down next to the bathtub, curling up on the rug. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I feel fine,” Ginsberg said. “It’s way worse when I get my period. This is nothing.”

“You don’t have to try and make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” said Ginsberg. “You think I underwent some big trauma? Not unless a million other girls did.”

Megan dipped her fingers in the water, moving them back and forth. “Mine wasn’t so great.”

Ginsberg sat up, her back squeaking against the porcelain. She blew some bubbles away from her face. Now she smelled like violets, too. “No?”

“He wasn’t very careful,” she said. “I mean, we were young and neither of us knew what we were doing. We were parking on the McGill campus, terrified we’d see police lights or security or something. I wanted it, but - he didn’t seem to understand how it worked for girls the first time. Why it hurt me, why I couldn’t respond the way he wanted. He said, ‘It’s supposed to be easy. I’ve done it with other girls and it was always easy then.’” She sighed, lost in the memory. “It was the fifties. Nobody knew a goddamned thing.”

“What a fucking asshole,” Ginsberg said. It wasn’t an appropriate response, but it made Megan smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “I ended up scrubbing the blood off in a gas station bathroom because I was so afraid of my mother finding out. Or my sister, who would have told on me. He wasn’t even my _boyfriend_.”

“Jesus Christ, Megan.” Ginsberg could see the scene all too clearly, a gangly teenaged Megan washing herself under dim flickering light, alone and scared because some boy didn’t care enough to help her.

“I was really boy crazy in those days,” Megan said. “He barely made a dent. I went out with one of his friends a couple of weeks later.”

“Here,” said Ginsberg. She wrapped her fingers around Megan’s wrist and drew her in. “C’mere - get in.”

“Me?” said Megan. The trace of sadness in her eyes faded; she turned playful instead, leaning back like she was trying to escape. “Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

A grin, then, toothy and sweet and so strangely young. Ginsberg had a moment where she wondered what they would have thought of each other, had they met back then. Would they have been friends? Would Megan have wanted to be around the girl who ate her lunch alone in the library, who had all the wrong haircuts and all the wrong clothes? Who talked to herself just to hear a voice? Or would she have shunned her, the way the pretty girls, the girls with long shiny hair and dresses that fit just right always had?

We met at the right time, Ginsberg thought. Like a chemical reaction. It doesn’t work if you try and force it.

Megan climbed into the tub, a series of inconvenient limbs. The water came perilously close to spilling over the edge and they had to fold their legs together awkwardly. Ginsberg dabbed a spot of bubbles on the end of Megan’s nose. Megan cupped Ginsberg’s hands in her own. Her thumbs stroked the lines of Ginsberg’s scars, and she tensed up, waiting for the question to come. _Why would you_. But it never did.

 

 

They saw each other a lot, after that. They went to the movies, the beach (“Socks, honey? Really?” Megan said, looking down at Ginsberg’s feet), out for drinks. Megan liked either hole in the wall hippie joints where the patrons smoked hookah pipes and played the bongos, or fancy restaurants where you might get to see Elizabeth Taylor throw a drink at somebody. Ginsberg had no preference. If anything, being around Vivian had demystified famous people. They were big, outsized personalities but they also fought with their husbands and sent their grandkids care packages and forgot birthdays. She did approve the hippie bars habit of putting pillows on the floor in lieu of chairs, though. It was very comfortable.

They didn’t _always_ have sex. And their outings weren’t quite dates. At times all they did was watch TV together, at Megan’s or in Ginsberg’s guesthouse. Once Megan fell asleep with her head in Ginsberg’s lap.

(Ginsberg kept thinking about it in the days that followed, the way Megan’s face relaxed in sleep. She looked about ten years old; no makeup, her hair in a ponytail, curled up on her side.)

They were friends. Friends and some other stuff. Besides, Megan was still dating men.

They weren’t very interesting men, by the sounds of it. Ginsberg hadn’t met any of them, and didn’t want to. But she listened to Megan’s complaining.

“He’s cheap,” she said, about the latest candidate. They were out for breakfast, Megan having spent the night. “And he lies about the most random things. Like he told me he was from Washington, but he’d actually come from Maryland. He said he spoke French, but he doesn’t.” She exhaled smoke, her cigarette jutting from between her fingers, half gone to ash. “They’re always like this. What’s so hard about telling the truth? I don’t get it.”

Neither did Ginsberg. “Then why go out with him?” she asked.

Megan shrugged. “Why say no?” she said. “I’ve gotten good at lowering my expectations. Besides, he has connections. Which I can definitely use right now. He introduces me to people.”

Ginsberg picked at her eggs. Her coffee was cold. “Has it helped?”

Megan frowned. Her eyes flicked towards the window, the busy street outside. “No,” she said, and stubbed out her cigarette.

Ginsberg picked her up at Paramount the next weekend. It was a cloudless Saturday, perfect for driving. Vivian didn’t mind her borrowing the car. She was having her nails and hair done at the house and a ‘constitutional’ later on - aka a nap - and had no need for it. So Ginsberg went to get Megan, rolling through the hills under the brisk sunshine. There was wind in her hair and the palm trees lit the way like a row of torches. It was a good morning.

Megan had been visiting a friend, who had sent a car to pick her up. Ginsberg didn’t know why she wasn’t chauffeured home as well, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

She pulled up to the famous Paramount gates. A security guard took her ID and spent a lot of time with it. “I’m here to see Megan Calvet,” she said, worried she wouldn’t be let in. Who knew if he would even recognize the name. But he nodded, gave her back the ID, and waved her on.

Megan was waiting for her by a lot that looked like the Lower East Side if it had been hosed down and painted up. There were no overflowing garbage cans, no store windows gone foggy with age, no clashing neon signs. Pretty as a picture and twice as flat. She was wearing a short blue number that made Ginsberg sit up and take notice.

“Wow,” she said, as Megan slid into the passenger’s seat. “You look good, even for you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re always so free with compliments.”

“Kindness is one of the only free things in this world, Megan,” she said, airily. “Who’d you come up to see?”

She made the vaguest of gestures, a non-committal adjustment of sunglasses and a not quite smile. Ginsberg let out a whoop, startling her.

“I _knew_ it,” she said. “I knew you had a movie star friend! Who is it?”

“Not a movie star,” Megan said. “It’s - someone behind the scenes.”

“I’m gonna pull over if you won’t tell me,” Ginsberg said.

“ _Michaela_ -”

“I’m doing it,” she said, hitting the brake and parking the car next to a huge, square body of water too big to be a pool but not round enough to be called a lake. It was probably where they filmed boating scenes. Who could tell how many famous yachts had broken that glass-smooth surface, or how many starlets had bathed along its edges. “We can sit here forever. I have all day.”

Megan laughed. She kicked her sandals off and put her bare feet up on the dash, tipping her head back to soak up the light. “Fine,” she said. “It’s Robert Evans. Are you happy?”

It took Ginsberg a second to place the name. It was so ordinary. “Wait,” she said. “You’re buddies with the head of fucking Paramount?”

“Not buddies,” she said. “Just acquainted.”

“He sent a car out for you!” Ginsberg said, excited. “Megan, you know what that means. He’s scouting you.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If I play my cards right.”

“What cards?”

Megan didn’t seem nearly as upbeat about the situation as Ginsberg was. “You know what I mean.”

“When do I ever know what anyone means?”

Megan pressed her lips together. She became restless, curling her toes against the hot vinyl of the dash and fiddling with her seat belt. Ginsberg couldn’t tell if she was looking at her or not; not with the sunglasses. “I mean,” she said. “If I can make him want me enough.”

There was a long and potent silence. Ginsberg broke it because she could feel the pressure building. Pressing in on her temples. Like the air before a storm. “So, you - ah. You’re sleeping with him.”

“No,” said Megan, and then readjusted. “Not yet.”

“But you’re going to,” Ginsberg said. “Isn’t he -”

She let the statement drop between them like a stone. Not finishing had no effect. Megan knew exactly what she was going to say. What she was going to be accused of.

“Married?” Megan asked. “Aren’t most of them?” Sudden bitterness cut through her voice like oil in water. “It never stops men, so I don’t see why I should let it stop _me_. I told you, I’m learning to lower my expectations. I’m just -” She broke off and looked away, like she had that day during breakfast. This time there was no excuse, nothing to look at. Just rows of empty boats. “I’m just trying to get what I can get out of them. Men always want what they can’t have. So I’m making him wait.”

Married. To some actress, Ginsberg couldn’t remember her name. She had sharp dark eyes and stick straight hair.

“I thought Don was helping you out,” Ginsberg said. “So you could take your time, career wise.”

“I haven’t heard from Don in weeks,” said Megan. “Out of sight, out of mind. I just had to borrow money for new headshots from Bob.”

“You could’ve asked me,” Ginsberg said. “Vivian doesn’t even charge me rent. I have money, Megan.”

Megan’s forehead creased. “I don’t want _money_ to be between us.”

Ginsberg got back out on the road. Just like they weren’t actually dating, it wasn’t actually a fight. Megan had folded in on herself, watching Paramount recede in the distance as they crossed through the gates and entered the real world once more. She had her fingertips at her mouth, tapping nervously against her lips.

“I’ve tried everything else,” she said. “And if this is what it takes -” She broke off again, then tried for a joke. “At least he’s handsome, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ginsberg said.

Megan looked sideways at her. “Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not,” said Ginsberg. And she wasn’t. Megan didn’t owe her anything. They weren’t shopping for wedding cake toppers. But she was -

\- she didn’t like the idea of some Hollywood sleazebag putting his hands all over Megan. And she was allowed to have her own damn opinion on it. Christ, at least no one advertising wanted to fuck her before giving her a job. Most of them seemed to think she was a kind of sexless being. An office gnome that had good ideas, sometimes.

“It’s very hard to make it in this town,” Megan said. She was saying it to herself as much as Ginsberg.

“You need a ride somewhere?” Ginsberg asked. “Or are you heading straight home?”

“Not home,” she said. “Out - I don’t know. Somewhere.”

She’d ask to get dropped off at a bar, thought Ginsberg. Where she would let some guy pick her up, not someone interesting or special, just a distraction in human form. Because she felt sad and guilty, and that way she could wipe her mind blank and punish herself all at once. Of course she would.

“Let’s go to a movie,” Ginsberg said.

“What?”

“A movie,” Ginsberg said. “You don’t have plans. Why not?”

“Okay,” Megan said after a minute. She was very confused, and no wonder.

Ginsberg drove to a kitschy little theater that had only a couple screens. It was red stucco with white trim, decorated at the top like a gingerbread house. There were two movies showing: _Love Story_ and _Ann and Eve_. Ginsberg didn’t know what either of them were about, so she went to investigate the posters.

From one of them stared the blown-up and beautiful face of Robert Evans’ wife, in a clutch with some blonde guy.

“Shit,” Ginsberg said, but Megan hadn’t noticed. She was back by the ticket-taker, holding her purse in front of her and rocking back on her heels.

Ginsberg turned towards the other one, which featured two women walking around in their underwear with their backs to the camera. It was an obvious wink and nudge. Ann and Eve - yeah, right. It was perfect.

“Two for Ann and Eve,” she said, sliding money over the counter. The pimply teenager behind the glass gave her a look like he knew exactly what she was about. After she caught a glimpse of the poster, so did Megan.

“Are you trying to make a _point_?” she hissed as Ginsberg hurried her into the theater, a hand at her waist.

“Lights are going down, Megan,” she said. “Better find a seat.”

It was a mostly male audience, naturally. Ginsberg found them a quiet corner. As soon as the lights dropped, really dropped, Ginsberg reached for Megan’s hand.

She felt Megan tense up and then relax. Her own heart was pounding in her ears. She glanced over and met Megan’s eyes. They looked at each other for what seemed like a very long time.

Ginsberg squeezed her hand. After a second Megan returned the gesture.

The title credits for the movie came up. It was subtitled and set in some European city Ginsberg didn’t recognize. Maybe Megan would. She must have been lots of places. Ann and Eve were a hard faced blonde and a delicate brunette who became embroiled in various sexual escapades and manipulations as they traveled, manipulating and being manipulated, rife with nudity and yes, lesbianism.

It wasn’t a very good movie. But people didn’t come to these kinds of movies because they were good.

“Bet you can’t guess what those guys are doing right now,” said Ginsberg said, nodding at the other side of the theater. “Good thing it’s dark.”

“Eww,” Megan whispered. She suppressed a laugh and wrinkled her nose.“Don’t tell me that.”

“Well, they sure as hell didn’t come with dates,” Ginsberg said. She let go of Megan’s hand and cupped her knee instead. At first it meant nothing, a small and innocent gesture of comfort, but then -

\- she did something crazy.

It could have been the warmth and intimacy of sitting so close together in the dark, or the girls cavorting around naked on the screen, or some kind of weird rage reaction to the fact that there were probably men jerking off a few seats down but she couldn’t be affectionate with Megan in public. Not even if Megan wanted her to. (Did Megan want her to?)

She traced the bones of Megan’s knee with her fingers. When Megan shifted - when her knees parted, just enough for what Ginsberg had in mind - she slid her hand further up. Not too far. To the lower thigh, where her skin was soft and sensitive.

Megan’s head turned towards her. She didn’t say anything. Just inched her fingers up, waiting for Megan to tell her to stop. To close her legs around Ginsberg’s hand.

She never did.

A sigh moved through her, and she opened her legs farther. Her fingers went tight around the arms of the seat. They were off to the side, the only ones in their row. No one was watching. No one was paying attention.

Ginsberg’s hand touched warm cotton at the junction of Megan’s thighs. She kept looking at the screen, blind and deaf to it, determined not to give the game away. But she was no longer interested in anything happening there. Her thumb started moving in circles, pressing down slightly, searching. When she found was she was looking for Megan twitched. She made a small sound.

“Shhh,” Ginsberg said. Her face was hot. She couldn’t believe her own daring. Her heartbeat ran like a stopwatch, on the border of being of control. More so than ever when Megan rested her head on Ginsberg’s shoulder, breathing hard. One hand pressed against her mouth to muffle herself. She wasn’t quiet during sex.

She stayed there while Ginsberg got her off. Ginsberg continued watching the screen, the other audience members (and no one was looking, still, thank god no one was, because she couldn’t _stop_ ) but wouldn’t look over at Megan, because she couldn't. She would end up kissing her in the middle of the theater and they would get arrested.

Possibly they were going to get arrested anyway.

She couldn’t help but hear her, though. All that noise she was trying to hold back, the little whimpers and moans -

Megan clutched at Ginsberg’s sleeve. Ginsberg could feel her getting wet through the panties.

“You’re doing good,” she said. “No one else can hear you. You’re doing real good, sweetheart -”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Megan said, swallowing down a groan, tensing up, her mouth open against Ginsberg’s shoulder as she came. Her hair had fallen into her face. Gradually, she straightened up and brushed it back.

Ginsberg felt like she’d just robbed a fucking _bank_.

Slowly they readjusted their positions. Sitting normally as if nothing had happened at all. Megan cleared her throat.

“What the hell is this movie about?” she asked.

Ginsberg’s mouth twitched. “I have no idea,” she said, and they cracked up, drawing all the attention they had been trying to avoid.

Megan didn’t let it end there. Once Ginsberg had managed to press her face back together, she leaned over. “Meet me in the bathroom,” she said. “Five minutes.” Then she got up. Ginsberg watched her go, clutching the armrests. She started counting down.

She felt like she had a brand on her back as she searched for the washroom. But she wasn’t followed, and Megan was the only one in there.

“Hey,” she said, and that was all she got out before Megan grabbed her. Fists balled up in her shirt, mouth on hers, hungry and shameless. She was manhandled into a bathroom stall.

Megan locked it before diving back in. She tugged at Ginsberg’s belt, fuming. “Why the fuck are you always wearing so many goddamn layers. This is way more complicated than giving a public blowjob.”

“They’re not usually in the way -”

“They’re always in the way,” Megan said, and kissed her again. She got the belt loose and went down on her knees, taking Ginsberg’s pants with her and then her underwear. “Better be quick,” said Megan, before prying her thighs apart. “Someone might come in.” They were completely out of control. Ginsberg didn’t want to stop.

It didn’t take her long.

Afterwards they clung to each other. Not speaking, not exactly kissing, just breathing the same air. Megan was trembling. Ginsberg didn’t mention it.

 

 

She put some gas in the car afterwards and went for a drive. Probably she should have gone back to Vivian’s; it wasn’t smart, joyriding in your employers car. She always felt odd, driving it - it was a long sleek black thing, prohibitively and obviously expensive, and she dressed in hand-me-downs from the Salvation Army. One of these days she was gonna get accused of stealing it.

But she’d already dropped Megan off at home. She hadn’t gone in. She had wanted to say something, and she could tell that Megan did too, and in the end neither of them said anything at all. They stared at each other in that dusty parking lot, the smell of asphalt and tar in the air, a cloud of tension building between them like a lightning storm. Megan kept worrying the fastener on her purse, her painted fingernails scraping the metal. Ginsberg’s foot twitched on the gas pedal.

After Megan’s door closed behind her (the curtains didn’t twitch; she hadn’t looked out) Ginsberg found an old map of the state in the glove compartment. It was faded along the creases but the highway system couldn’t have changed all that much. Some of the roads were lined with red and there were directions jotted down in the margins.

She decided to follow them.

They took her out on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading up towards the mountains. That was good, she hadn’t been out here before. It was new. The coast was rougher than she would have expected, steep cliffs plunging down into a wild blue ocean. The salt air filled the car as she drove, the scent of pearls and coral and sunken ships. Eventually she arrived at an old - historical, really - white building with a red clay roof.

She stopped the car but didn’t get out. She’d seen plenty of places like this in LA, but this was the real deal. A Spanish mission. There was a well tended flower garden out front - it was a tourist attraction. A thing they put on postcards and forgot the original, bloody-minded purpose of.

She wondered what Vivian had gone out here for. To meet an old friend? A lover? It would certainly make an appropriately dramatic backdrop. Vivian had a very exciting life once upon a time. Now Ginsberg did also. Had it been so difficult for Vivian as well?

But she wasn’t meeting anyone, so there was no excuse to linger. She turned around and went back home. Babette was waiting for her when she got there.

Not to yell or accuse Ginsberg of taking advantage of Vivian’s generosity, as she might have feared. She’d taken a couple of messages while Ginsberg was out and was passing them on.

“Thanks,” Ginsberg said. She didn’t look at them until she was back in her pink palace, in case they were bad news. She had her own line to call from, after all. So she unfolded the pieces of paper in her bedroom. Usually, any messages left on the main phone were from her father, who couldn’t quite get the hang of dialing her directly. Not this time.

One was from Megan. It said that she wouldn’t be around much for the next few days because Don had finally decided to come out and participate in the divorce proceedings. It didn’t tell her not to call, but Ginsberg got the picture. The other was from Stan. It didn’t say anything but that he wanted to hear from her.

She threw them both in the garbage.

It wasn’t that Ginsberg was angry at Stan. God, not at all. She owed him so much. It was just that she couldn’t look him in the face ever again. Not after what she had done.

It hadn’t been warm out yet. She remembered that, because she had to put a coat on over the dress she’d borrowed from Meredith. It had been too tight in the shoulders, and very short, but she didn’t have anything appropriate of her own. Her clothes were perfunctory; she wore them because she had to in order to go outside, not because she wanted to be looked at. It had never occurred to her to wonder what that meant.

So she borrowed a dress from Meredith and felt like she was in a costume the whole time. She washed her face, which didn’t get rid of the dark circles, and tried to do something with the frizz in her hair. She hadn’t been sleeping much. She hadn’t slept at all, last night, and maybe the one before -

She couldn’t remember.

And she knew that Stan liked pretty girls. She’d seen his girlfriends. But she hoped he’d make an exception, just once. Because she needed this. It was the last chance she had.

There was a humming in her head the whole way there on the subway. It was like a dog whistle, no - like static, like the sound the radio made when it went dead or the television when it couldn’t pick up a signal. She looked around for the source but found nothing. It made the space behind her eyes hurt, made her teeth vibrate. She pressed her hands to the sides of her head but it wouldn’t stop. By the time she got to Stan’s building she was running from it.

Her fingers were going numb, her upper lip, the skin on the back of her neck. Everything seemed very far away, the way it did when you were underwater, but there was nothing wrong with her eyes or her ears. It didn’t feel real, and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe neither was she. For a panicked second she stopped breathing entirely, but then it came back in a whoosh. She hit Stan’s buzzer over and over again until he picked up.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice sounded funny. Hoarse and dry from the running. She couldn’t calm down; there was a clammy sweat breaking out under her clothes. “Are you busy?”

“It’s Saturday,” he said when he let her in. “Are you seriously working?”

“I was,” she said, but the billfold in her hands was mostly an excuse. “Can I keep going here? I need quiet. I’m never gonna get that at home. Or at the office - the computer -”

“I know how you feel about the computer,” he said, and gestured at the couch and the coffee table in front of it. Stan didn’t have a desk. “She’s all yours, maestro.”

Of course there was pot paraphernalia all over it. He told her once he couldn’t stand the news unless he was stoned. She could empathize. Death and destruction death and destruction -

“What kinda music you got?” she said, quickly. She had forgotten to take off her coat, and now she didn’t know where to put it. Did Stan have a hall closet?

“Thought you wanted quiet,” he said. His record collection was in the corner of the room and she went over and started flipping through it, crouching beside the stand and reading psychedelic labels upside down.

“I could use a little mood music,” she said, and gave him a big smile. But he only looked at her funny, like he was trying to figure her out, so she dropped it. She ended up picking the Velvet Underground because she knew it was one of his favorite bands. He helped her up, pulling her to her feet by her hand, and she thought maybe they were getting somewhere.

So she took off her coat, and let it fall to the floor. She’d seen something like that in a movie once.

“Hey,” he said, cheerful but not actually bowled over. “Look at you! You got a date later?”

She shrugged. “No. Can’t I just feel like looking nice?” The couch was old, the fabric worn and thin. She could feel the springs bounce when she sat down. Stan got paid fairly well but it never seemed to materialize into luxury the way it did with other people. Whatever he was in advertising for it wasn’t the money. She stared at his rolling papers for a second, trying to figure out what to say next.

She was starting to get that feeling again. Like she was being watched -

Ginsberg jumped to her feet and moved to the window, first looking out and then twitching the drapes shut.

“Ginzo?” Stan asked. He put his hand on her shoulder. “What’re you looking for?”

“What?” she asked, and laughed, or it was sort of a laugh. Almost a laugh. It shook the way her hands were trying to. She balled them into fists. “I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?”

“Uh,” Stan said. “You sure look different. There’s really no special occasion?”

She sat back down and patted the seat beside her. Tried to seem sexy or grown up or fucking - fucking remotely appealing. She could feel her hair curling against her face with sweat, and then the prickle of goosebumps on her skin. The humming was louder than ever. There was something wrong -

\- _no_. No, there wasn’t. She was going to fix this. She was going to be normal.

“Why don’t we have a drink?” she asked.

“Because you don’t drink,” he said.

It wasn’t that she didn’t drink. It was that she didn’t drink much, because girls who did were vulnerable in ways she didn’t want to think about. Especially around men. And she was always so close to being out of control already. Better to keep the lines sharp. To avoid confusion. There was so much of it, no matter what she did.

“I’m making an exception,” she said. “For you.”

Stan squinted at her. And then he stepped forward and put her hand on her forehead.

She slapped it away. “What the fuck is that?”

“Checking to see if you have a fever,” he said. “You’re acting funny.”

She grabbed at his hand, desperately, trying to tug him down. “Is it funny to want to see you?”

Stan’s face froze mid-expression. He didn’t sit down, and he didn’t pull away. He stared at her instead, solid and immovable as granite, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Ginzo,” he said, slowly. “I think you’re gonna have to tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”

“I need your help,” she said, because it was true.

He sat next to her, then. On the edge of the couch cushion, leaning towards her with his hands on his knees. “You name it. You get yourself into some kind of trouble?”

“We need to have sex,” Ginsberg said.

It was the first time she’d seen Stan at a loss for words. His face flooded with red, visible even in the low light of the room. “I - you - we aren’t gonna do that,” he choked out, shaking his head. “Why - where the hell did you come up with that idea? You don’t feel that way about me, Ginzo. I _know_ you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking,” she said. “I am so sick of people _telling me what I’m thinking_.”

“What does that mean?” Stan asked.

“You, my father, everyone does it,” she said. “Like I don’t know my own mind. But I do, and I know what I have to do to fix this. They’re not gonna get me.”

“Who?” Stan asked. He was starting look at her the way other people did. Lines of concern around his eyes. A frown stretching across his face. “Is somebody after you?”

“Yes!” she yelled, and then changed her mind. “No - it’s not, it’s not a fucking person. It’s a thing. It’s out there,” she pointed to the window, and then to her own head, “and it’s in here. It’s the computers, or it’s something they generate - because I know what it wants, Stan. What it wants from me and what it wants me to be. But we can - if you have sex with me, I’ll get better. I’ll be normal. Like I’m supposed to be.”

“Jesus,” said Stan. “Are you listening to yourself? How long have you been like this?”

“Like what?” she asked, because god, did he know? Did everyone know? The things she thought about at night, the girls she couldn’t forget (the shapes of their legs through their sundresses, the way their shoulders sloped on the train at night).

“Like you’re out of your mind,” he said. “Ginsberg, you need to go to a doctor.”

“No,” she said. “No, no - I’ll die if I do. You know what doctors do to people like me. Here, in the camps -”

“The camps,” he said. “Slow down, you’re not -”

“They kill us if they can and they lock us up if they can’t,” she said, and here it was. She had always known that something was coming for her, big and ugly and hungry in the night. Now it had arrived. There was no escape.

Stan reached over to try and either calm her or restrain her. She wouldn’t let him do either, shoving herself back against the arm of the couch beyond his grasp.

“No one is trying to kill you,” he said.

“Yes, they are,” she said. She had moved into the stage of fear that was beyond demonstrations like crying or screaming. It was a cold, still place, a nuclear winter. “Because that’s what they do to dykes.”

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“I look at Peggy,” she confessed, and she couldn’t have said why she told him so. It came out without her permission, seeping into the air like a poison. “When we’re in the office. Sometimes I look at her legs, and - I get _excited_.”

“Big deal,” he said. “So do I. That’s nothing to beat yourself up over.”

“She’d hate me if she knew.”

“Ginsberg, her best friend is a lesbian. She wouldn’t hate you.”

“It’s different,” she said. “It would be different with me.” Because it always was, somehow. She didn’t get to have the things other people did. She didn’t live up to expectations. She been an inadequate daughter and an inadequate survivor and now she was an inadequate woman.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Stan said. “Because I’m calling your Dad, and we’ll all figure out what to do together.”

“Okay,” she whispered, but she didn’t mean it. Stan’s phone was in another room, and she waited for him to leave. For the sound of his voice, talking Morris down, trying to deliver bad news. _I think there’s something wrong with your daughter_. She grabbed her coat and ran out, leaving his front door swinging wide open behind her.

 

 

The trip to the pharmacy was like a dream. She remembered picking the razorblades up, but not paying for them. She didn’t know what the cashier’s reaction had been, seeing such a disheveled woman buying a borderline weapon, or if there had been a reaction at all.

She remembered the bus ride to work. That, for some reason, she had retained with crystal clarity. The little girl being scolded by her mother. The three days worth of beard growth on the bus driver’s face. The way the windows fogged up from the damp outside. Maybe because she thought it was the last time she’d ever see any of it.

Her hand hadn’t been steady enough to get the key into the lock. She’d had to use both, and had forgotten to lock it after her. In the end, that was what probably saved her life. Because Stan left his keys at home, and he was the one who found her.

She did it in the bathroom, because it would be easier to clean up. And that way a maid might find her. Which was still cruel, and awful, because she was terrible and selfish. But not somebody she knew, she had prayed right before doing the deed. Don’t let anyone I care about see this.

God didn’t answer that prayer, just as he hadn’t answered any of her prayers. She woke up in an ambulance, and Stan was sitting beside her with his face in his hands.

 

 

Megan came back from her meeting with Don in a foul mood. “He’s screwing with me,” she said, lighting up a cigarette while lying in bed next to Ginsberg in bed. “Drawing it out for who knows what reason. He gets some sick pleasure from making me miserable.”

Ginsberg sighed. She had been very limp and post-coital only a minute before. “Just what I hoped to hear at this moment,” she said, kissing Megan’s shoulder. “A story about your ex husband.”

The corners of Megan’s mouth dipped downwards. “Sorry,” she said, and stubbed the cigarette out fiercely in the bedside ashtray. The one Ginsberg kept there only for her. “I won’t bring it up again.”

“Hey,” Ginsberg said. “It was only a joke - where are you going?”

Megan was getting out of bed, plucking at her clothes that were scattered across the floor. “I have - I’m meeting this guy for a drink. I completely forgot.” She buttoned her shirt, looking up at the clock on the wall. “Shit. I might already be late, and I don’t have any makeup on me.”

“There’s a drugstore a couple of blocks over,” Ginsberg said, without feeling. A deep, tangy bitterness welled up in her for a second, briefly experienced before she pushed it back down. “You need money?”

Megan stopped fussing with her shirt to lean over and kiss Ginsberg on the cheek. It seemed to be sincere.

(Could she tell?)

“You’re a sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

Ginsberg sat up, the sheets falling down to her waist. “I wish you’d stay instead.”

Megan stiffened up. She pulled away, turning towards the bedroom door for no particular reason. “I would if I could, you know that.”

“But you have a date,” Ginsberg said, abrasive as a sailor’s parrot.

Megan gave her a single, sharp look. She had lipstick smeared on her neck; from her mouth, to Ginsberg’s, and then down south. Ginsberg wondered if she was aware of it. Childishly, she didn’t say anything. Let her be marked.“You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“Thought I was stating facts,” Ginsberg said.

Megan tucked her blouse into her skirt. “You -” she said, pressed her lips together in furious silence, and stood with her hands on her hips. Ginsberg could feel the fight coming, and the fucked up thing was that she almost welcomed it.

It was Megan, inexplicably, who put a stop to it. She forced herself to relax, visibly, and slid her sunglasses on like nothing had happened. “See you soon,” she said, with an insincere smile, and waltzed out the door. There was no trace of anything real in her.

“Quite the actress,” Ginsberg said, and went back to bed because she had nothing better to do.

Maybe in another world that was the end of it. In the one they were in Megan showed up at Ginsberg’s door around midnight, having ditched her date. Her color was high and her eyes were bright, neither of which had anything to do with Mr. Right Now. She had a bottle of wine in her hand. An offering.

“Accept my apology?” she asked, and Ginsberg, fool was she, let her back in.

 

 

“Get your clothes on,” Megan said, throwing a jacket vaguely in her direction. “We’re going out.” She was dressed up herself but Megan was often dressed up. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Ginsberg was half undressed, sitting on the bed in her underwear and a light summer shirt. It was getting hot again though the season was barely spring, and she didn’t want to have to wear real clothes. When summer came it was going to kill her. They could bury her in Vivian’s backyard and Puppet would whiz on her grave.

“Why,” she groaned, and tried to ignore Megan by putting her forearm over her eyes dramatically. Megan dropped a pair of jeans over her head. “Wear those,” she said. “They make your ass look good.”

“Where are we going that my ass needs to look good?” Ginsberg asked.

Megan wouldn’t answer directly. “You’ll see,” she said, full of mystery, and started rummaging through Ginsberg’s bathroom for hair products.

It wasn’t quite sunset yet. There was a slight darkening of the sky, a deepening of the blue. A thin line of orange along the horizon. They drove down in Megan’s car, the wind in their hair.

“Surprise,” Megan said, as they pulled up outside a bar in West Hollywood called Joani Presents. She grinned and waved her hands like a magician. Ginsberg couldn’t see what was supposed to be so surprising.

“Do they have especially good beer?” she asked.

Megan leaned in. “Michaela,” she said, “take a look at the patrons, please.”

Ginsberg looked over. There was a woman standing by the closed door, checking her wristwatch. There was another smoking, talking to a friend. She had short graying hair and wore slacks. They were all women, all the ones she could see, and -

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, fear and desire and anticipation shooting through her. It was like listening to four songs at once.

Megan saw her struggling. “Do you not want to go in?” she asked. “We can go home, if you aren’t ready.”

A place where she could be with Megan openly. Where they could dance, kiss, be normal. Be like anyone else. And nobody would care, no one would try and hurt them. It was so tempting.

But the cops could show up. They could raid the place and arrest everyone. Megan and Ginsberg could spend the night in a cold jail cell instead. For Megan that would be a ruination. Maybe for Ginsberg, too. She didn’t know how Vivian felt about the whole thing.

(How much money had to change hands to keep the cops away from joints like this?)

But it was Megan who brought her here. Megan who was waiting patiently, still hopeful, who’d done herself up so they could be seen in public together. And who now offered to go home, based solely on Ginsberg’s say so.

“I’m never gonna be ready,” she said. “I’m tired of waiting for it. Let’s go in anyway.”

She would believe they would be lucky. Just for tonight.

Ginsberg nodded at the woman standing by the door. She couldn’t have explained why if asked. It was like she was entering a temple and had to acknowledge the priestess. Megan tried to hide her laugh but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Have you been out here before?” Ginsberg asked.

“A couple of times,” Megan said. “Everyone is very discrete.”

The bar was particularly special inside. It was long and narrow, mostly booths and a small dance floor at the very back. It was very busy for a nondescript bar on a Thursday night. There were only women present, as there had been outside. Talking with their heads bent together, holding hands across a tabletop, pressed together swaying to the music. The Searchers was playing from a source she couldn’t identify. The women were varied: young and old, huddled over drinks, laughing loudly, in miniskirts, in cowboy boots and denim jackets. They had nothing in common, except that one thing, the thing none of them could deny.

Ginsberg tried not to stare. She could feel a space in her chest opening up.

“So?” Megan asked. “What do you think?”

“I’m glad we came,” Ginsberg said. “What kind of drink do you want?”

Ginsberg settled on water. Megan got a fruity concoction with an umbrella in it, but didn’t touch it much. She stirred the paper umbrella through the drink, mixing ice and bright yellow liquor in circles, and then put it between her teeth like a toothpick. She couldn’t seem to decide what to do with her hands, and glanced over at the dancing girls more than once.

She was nervous. Visibly so, as much as Ginsberg ever was. And she very quickly realized she had been caught, pulling the umbrella out of her mouth and smiling dryly. “It’s like we’re on a first date,” she said. “Am I crazy for thinking so?”

“We are,” Ginsberg said. “Aren’t we?”

“Maybe I should introduce myself,” Megan said. She extended her hand across the table and Ginsberg shook it. “I’m Megan. I’m in the middle of getting a divorce and can’t find a job, so clearly I’m the girl of your dreams.”

“I’m Michaela,” Ginsberg said. “I have a funny first name and something wrong with my head and a career in flames. Nice to meetcha.”

Megan grinned. She twirled her umbrella between her fingers. “I like your first name. We’re both a little dependent on the kindness of strangers, aren’t we?”

“Not always strangers,” said Ginsberg, and the ironic distance between them faded, collapsed, disappeared. Their handshake became a handclasp.

“Not always,” Megan agreed. “We should do this more. Go - I don’t know. Somewhere.” She laughed. “ _Outside_.”

“The south of France,” said Ginsberg, which she pulled out of nowhere. She had no specific desire to see the south of France, or really any part of France at all. If pressed, could not have described what the south of France looked like. Beaches, maybe? The misty colors of a Renoir painting. But it had certain romantic associations, and Megan was French. She would know the language. And no one would know them. That was the important part.

“A cottage in Provence,” said Megan. “With a trip to seashore. You’ll get sunburned, but it would be worth it.”

“Is sunburn ever worth it?” Ginsberg asked. A funny melancholy stole over her, sneaking in the cracks of the conversation. They were never gonna do any of this stuff. Not France, not vacations together, not a shared apartment. Megan couldn’t afford it. It was Ginsberg who had nothing left to lose.

No, it was bars and bedrooms for them. Four sturdy walls to keep the world away.

Still, that was more than some people got. More than she would have had, if she never came out to the West Coast.

“Wanna dance?” she asked. “I see you looking over there.”

Megan smiled. Her face was tender and wide open. “You can’t dance.”

“Try me,” said Ginsberg. She pulled Megan to her feet by their still joined hands. She towered over her, especially in those heels, but Ginsberg felt so much bigger than she was. Like she was standing in a spotlight with the way Megan looked at her; like all those walls she was thinking about had dropped to the ground. She was learning, then, how to take things as they came. Better late than never.

Her father would be so proud. She almost laughed at the thought.

The dance floor was laid out in black and white check, a relic from the forties. The pictures on the walls indicated a long history - women with their hair in victory rolls and lipstick that was surely red or Marlene Dietrich style top hat and tails. The light was low and golden. It gave everything a warm glow. She put her hand on the small of Megan’s back and led her to the center of the floor. No hiding on the edges.

“Thank you for bringing me out here,” she said as Megan looped her long arms around Ginsberg’s neck. “I think I needed this.”

Megan gave a short nod. “You -” she said, her voice suddenly thick. “You deserve it. Okay?”

“What’s wrong?” Ginsberg asked. “Megan, what is it?”

“Nothing,” said Megan. “Just kiss me. Please - kiss me.”

So Ginsberg did, right out where everyone could see.

 

 

They were still all over each other by the time they got back to her place. Megan left her car parked in Vivian’s drive and they walked through the dark and silent house together. What did Vivian think about the mornings she would find Megan’s convertible out front? They had never given her an explanation, and she had never asked for one.

Once they got out in the backyard they could touch again, and they did. Megan’s hands up under the back of Ginsberg’s shirt, biting her ear and backing her up against a tree. Ginsberg unbuttoning the front of Megan’s dress so her pretty lace bra showed through. They got moving again, stumbling towards her front door, getting in each other’s way. Kissing whenever they could and laughing the whole way there.

The porch light was on. That was the first thing she noticed, because she hadn’t turned it on before she left. There was movement to the left of the house, near the bushes. She jumped and grabbed Megan’s arm, preparing to flee.

“Ginzo?” Stan asked, stepping out from the foliage. He had a cigarette in his hand, and his eyes were as round as saucers. “Is that _Megan_?”

“Holy shit,” Megan gasped. Even in the dark Ginsberg could see her face go white. She staggered backwards, tripping on her own high heel and clutching the front of her dress closed. “I’m fine,” she kept saying when Ginsberg tried to steady her. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Sorry if I scared you girls,” Stan said. “The maid brought me back here. I was just, uh. Having a smoke.” He waved the cigarette around, unnecessarily, and appeared to be at a loss for words. He looked only at Megan’s shoes, keeping his eyes studiously off her chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ginsberg asked. Maybe she should have been more polite but Jesus Christ there were _limits_. “Why didn’t you _call_?”

“I did call,” he protested. “A bunch of times! You never called me back.”

“Do you think that might’ve been a hint?” she asked, her voice rising. She wasn’t really angry. Her life had been flashing before her eyes a second ago; it destabilized her mood.

“Your father told me I should come out and see you,” said Stan. “So blame him. I was taking his advice, I swear to god.” He held up his hand like an overgrown boy scout.

Ginsberg closed her eyes. Of course it was Morris. Of course. Unfortunately Stan was still there when she opened them.

Megan was rapidly buttoning up her dress, which drew more attention to her disheveled state than leaving it alone. The whites of her eyes showed all the way around.

“I’d better go,” she said. “I’ve got a - this appointment. Um. It was nice seeing you, Stan.” She’d already started to back away, and it would have been funny if she hadn’t looked so blatantly terrified. Ginsberg hoped she wasn’t going to try and run in those shoes.

Ginsberg said her name, and Megan froze in mid-stride, locking eyes with her and then breaking away just as quickly. She wanted to say something, but -

“Be careful driving home,” she said. Megan nodded and ducked her head. She left without another word, hurrying down the path, her hands in fists at her sides. Her back was as straight as a ruler. Ginsberg watched her go until she vanished into the trees. She would have to walk around the house, not through it. Ginsberg had the key.

“What the hell was that?” Stan asked.

Ginsberg turned on him. “None of your business. It was supposed to be _private_.”

Stan tossed the cigarette down and stubbed it out. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m not here to fight with you, I just -” He rubbed his eyes, and Ginsberg noticed how tried he looked. “Can I come in? I had a late flight.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I mean, you might as well.” She gestured, vaguely, at the empty space Megan had occupied.

“Hate to say this,” Stan said, conversationally. He retrieved a duffel bag from the bushes and followed her in. “But you’re a shitty host.”

“You have to invite someone out to be a host,” she said, flicking on the lights and taking off her shoes. She wanted to get into her pajamas, but probably that was impolite or something. She couldn’t tell. She didn’t have house guests often enough. “What the hell were you doing in the bushes?”

“I thought you wouldn’t want cigarette butts by your front door,” he said. “I was being polite.” He looked around the room, taking in the frothiness and the strawberry decor. “Nice digs. It suits you.”

“You want coffee or something?” she asked.

“Not at this time of night. Got any beer?”

“No,” she said, “but there’s a little wine in the fridge.” From Megan’s visit. Wine was supposed to last forever, right? Not poison a person like moonshine?

She gave him some in a coffee mug. He laughed at that, sprawling out on her couch like he lived there. “So,” he said, sipping it. “You’ve, uh. Changed.”

She looked down at herself. She had forgotten that her appearance would be new to him, or that she would have to deal with a reaction to it. “I look different,” she said. “I’m the same person underneath.” But that wasn’t true either. She rubbed the scars on her wrists, the ones she occasionally forgot were there now, through her sleeves. He saw her doing it.

“You look good,” was all he said. “Comfortable.”

Her eyes were suddenly very dry. Stinging, even. She pressed her thumb to the corner of one, trying to stop the itch. “Thanks,” she said, her voice hoarse for no reason at all.

“So what was up with the disappearing act?”

She shook her head. How could she explain having that kind of shame to someone who never seemed ashamed of anything? “I should have called,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You should have,” he agreed. “How are you feeling? For real?”

“Better,” she said. “For real. Maybe it’s all that warm weather.”

“Good,” he said. “Tell me all about it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have a hotel room?”

“Why?” he scoffed. “You have a whole damn house and you can’t give me the couch for a night?”

Ginsberg got him some pillows and blankets, which he immediately hogged even though she was sitting on the couch next to him. “Make me a sandwich,” he demanded as soon as she went into the kitchen to return the wine bottle to the fridge. “Fuck off,” she said, and threw a bag of potato chips into his lap instead. She did change into her pajamas, and if she didn’t tell him everything then she still told him most of it.

They had a really nice time, and she didn’t let herself think about Megan, about the look on Megan’s face upon being discovered, about her stiff and horrified back walking away into the night. And that was good, because the next time they saw each other Megan was trying to run off with someone else.

 

 

Ginsberg knew something was wrong the minute she saw her. Like she could feel the end beginning.

She’d been sitting on the sofa with Puppet, reading a paperback and teasing him. His tiny paws poked out from under the blanket (she had draped it over him, like a tent) and she would reach out and tap one with her finger. He would snuffle and pull it in in. She’d poke the other paw. Gone again. And then the first one would inch out, and the cycle would begin again.

The phone rang. Puppet launched himself to the floor, spinning in a circle and barking. “Miss Megan is here,” Babette said.

Ginsberg straightened her clothes. She crammed on her shoes and met Megan halfway through the backyard. There was something off about her expression; it was rigid and self contained in a way that Megan almost never was. “Hey,” Ginsberg said, and kissed her on the cheek. “What’s up?”

“Nothing in particular,” Megan said, too lightly. “I just - can we go back to the house?”

Ginsberg had that feeling like when she dumped a cup of coffee on an empty stomach. A rush of blood to her head, a cramp in her middle. Problems brewing up. “Sure,” she said, because there wasn't much else _to_ say.

Megan sat down at the kitchen table, which she never did unless they were eating. It was always the bedroom or the living room, more comfortable spaces. But Ginsberg had an idea that nothing about this was going to be comfortable. She let Puppet outside; he had free reign of the yard, being far too short to get over a fence, and would be safe out there.

“So,” Megan said. “I’m - um. I don’t quite know how to say this.” She was dressed like she was going to an audition, though it was seven at night.

“Stan won’t tell,” Ginsberg said.

“What?” Megan asked, startled. She couldn’t possibly have forgotten.

“Isn’t that what you’re here about?” Ginsberg asked. She sat down as well, fiddling with an empty mug that was on the table. “Getting caught? He’s not an asshole and he doesn’t care about Don. He won’t tell on you.”

“It’s not that.” She paused, and gave a more honest answer. “It’s not only that.”

“Then what?” Ginsberg asked. “You’re getting back together with Don? What? Just say it, the suspense is killing me.”

“I’m going away,” she said. “With Bob. I have my bags in the car.”

“With Bob,” Ginsberg echoed.

“Yeah, it’s -” Megan ran her hands through her hair, messing up her elaborate coiffure. “It scared me, okay? Stan popping up like that. If we can’t even keep things between us a secret - I can’t having anyone knowing. Don would ruin me. He’d think we had an affair and he’d take it personally. And I’m heading towards thirty and my career is fucking stalled and I’m running out of options. It’s a shark tank out there and I’m the chum in the water. I’m trying to keep my head above water.” She looked towards GInsberg for the first time, desperately. “Do you understand? Say something.”

“Where’s he taking you?” Ginsberg asked.

“What?”

“Hawaii?” Ginsberg asked. “Italy? I assume someplace warm.”

Shame cut across Megan’s face. “Greece,” she said. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Ginsberg said.

“Is that it?” Megan asked. “Is that really all you have to say?”

“What the hell else am I supposed to say?” Ginsberg asked. “You want me to beg you not to go?” She reached over, grasping Megan’s hand. “Fine. _Don’t go_.”

Megan pulled away. She got to her feet and crossed the floor, jittery, ending up by the sink. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do that.”

“What were you expecting?” Ginsberg asked. “For me to give my blessing?”

“No,” Megan said. “A little understanding -”

“I _don’t_ understand,” Ginsberg exploded. She was much louder than she intended to be, and Megan jumped. But once she had started she couldn’t stop. “Did he even promise you anything, Megan? Do you have a guarantee? Because if there’s one thing I learned in advertising it’s that you always get the asshole to sign the on the dotted line. Otherwise you get screwed. You end up with nothing. So tell me: did he promise you anything that would make this worth it?”

“Men like him don’t make promises,” she said. “You learn not to expect them, eventually.”

Jesus, what had Don _done_ to her? “So you’re just going to go ahead and give up,” Ginsberg said. “Not fight back at all.”

“It’s only a few nights, for god’s sake!” Megan yelled. “Being with him isn’t real. It isn’t like you and me. It has nothing to do with us!”

“It has everything to do with us!” Ginsberg said. “Everything, because I can’t pretend like you, Megan! Trying to be someone I wasn’t almost killed me. I won’t ever do it again, not for anyone. Not even you.”

Megan looked like she’d been slapped. Her face started to flush, her eyes suspiciously bright. But how could she not have known. They had only been heading in one direction, the whole time. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Ginsberg swallowed hard. She bit the inside of her cheeks, but her voice still came out scratchy and thick. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Megan said. “I do.” She wiped her eyes off with the side of her hand. “So we’re done.”

“Guess so,” Ginsberg said. She wanted to take it back immediately, but there was no way to without an inexcusable compromise of herself. It was awful and miserably unfair and the worst part was she had known; had known how untenable their situation was, how close they always were to toppling over the edge. And now there was only freefall and the inevitable hitting of the ground. Did being in love always hurt so badly?

Megan retrieved her purse from the back of the chair. “Have a nice life,” she said, and it was a bitter, snippy little comment but Ginsberg didn’t react. She didn’t even take it personally. Why bother.

It was her last chance to look at Megan, but she didn’t do that either. She didn’t want to watch her leave angry and in pain. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor until she felt a breeze coming in from outside. Megan had left the door wide open behind her.

 

 

Ginsberg woke to someone pounding at the door. It was three in the morning, only an hour after she had fallen asleep. She had wished for some her sedatives from the hospital but her prescription was sitting in her father’s medicine cabinet in New York. She had never sought a refill. She hadn’t needed to.

She heaved herself into a bathrobe and ran for the door, thinking it must be Vivian or Babette. An emergency, a collapse, a death. But it was Megan, so drunk she was swaying, her makeup streaked down her face.

“What the _hell_?” Ginsberg said.

Megan started crying. Or she had already been crying, her nose and eyes red and swollen.

“What happened? Oh my god, what happened?” Ginsberg asked. She pulled her inside. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Megan sobbed. “I didn’t go. I think I’m becoming a bad person.”

“What?”

“I feel sick,” she said, and Ginsberg managed to get her to the sink just in time. “I’m sorry,” she said, and cried harder. It seemed like an event she needed to ride out. Ginsberg rubbed her back until she had exhausted herself, leaning over the edge of the sink, maybe considering vomiting again. It was like watching a kid cry; no inhibitions. She was so wasted that she had blown right through all her boundaries.

“Feel better?” Ginsberg asked, after the drama had fizzled out. Now a tear or two leaked from her eyes and she sniffled but did not wail.

Megan nodded. “A bit.”

“How about we get you in the shower?” Her dress had a big mud stain on it. She must have fallen in the yard.

The shower sobered her up enough to actually explain what happened. “I was halfway to the airport,” she said, still slurred but clearer. Ginsberg made her eat some dry toast, too. She’d bet anything that Megan had been drinking on an empty stomach. “And I had to turn around. I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t call him - he’s going to be so mad.”

“So you’ll never work for Paramount,” said Ginsberg. “Big fucking deal. There are other studios.”

“I don’t want to be the kind of person who uses other people,” Megan said. She peered blearily through her hair at Ginsberg. “Am I?”

“No,” Ginsberg said. “You wouldn’t have come back if you were.”

“I don’t wanna be a _bitch_.” She said it very emphatically, like a thirteen year old swearing for the very first time. Ginsberg hid a smile.

“You aren’t,” she said. How much of this conversation would Megan remember in the morning, she wondered.

“Good.” Megan stood up. She listed considerably sideways, so Ginsberg helped her into the bedroom and into bed. They lay side by side, in the dark, until Megan spoke again.

“I don’t know how to be your girlfriend,” she said. “It’s un - unchart - what’s the word.”

“Uncharted territory,” Ginsberg said.

Megan sighed. She burrowed into the blankets. “Yes,” she said. “Uncharted territory.”

Ginsberg closed the space between their bodies. She reached out to stroke Megan’s hair and watched her eyes fall shut. Felt the tension leave her body, the fear she had been carrying around since they were discovered.

“That’s okay,” she said. “We’ll draw a map.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Joani Presents was a real lesbian bar in the LA of this period. Robert Evans was (and is) a real guy, and the former head of Paramount. I'm kind of mean to him in this story but he'd probably agree he deserves it. Vivian is based on the immortal Gloria Swanson.


End file.
